BCMS violinist Harumi Rhodes and pianist Mihae Lee with cellist Michael Reynolds.

Devotés of unjustly neglected music (I count myself among them) were given a belated Christmas present by the Boston Chamber Music Society at MIT’s Kresge Auditorium. Sponsored by the Goethe-Institut Boston, BCMS and the MIT Music and Theater Arts Faculty presented Exiled to Hollywood: Outcast Artists in Southern California, with works by five such composers. The significant migration of artists and scholars who fled Fascism in Europe in the 1930s has been a hot topic of the last 20 years.

With well over 200 opus numbers, Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco was an exceptionally prolific composer, even excluding the 200-plus movies for which he supplied music. Though his output includes many genres, he is today remembered largely as a composer for guitar and as the teacher of André Previn, Henry Mancini, and John Williams, among others. Violinist Harumi Rhodes, cellist Michael Reynolds, and pianist Mihae Lee gave us a richly colored performance of Castelnuovo-Tedesco’s Piano Trio in G Minor, Op. 70. Written in the early 1930s before the composer emigrated, its style might be termed “post-Romantic,” expressively chromatic but firmly rooted in tonality. The first movement, played with a unanimous, supple rubato, had fine atmosphere, though Lee was perhaps a tad deferential to the strings: the trio didn’t always seem like three equal partners. The second movement, Romanza con variazioni, displayed the composer’s ingenuity of variation technique, sensitively realized here. The final Rondo began with an agitated tarantella character, relaxed in the middle, then built up to an exciting conclusion. The BCMS players made a strong case for a reassessment of the full scope of this composer’s oeuvre.

The next group made for a very stark contrast. The talented composer Hanns Eisler was a disciple of Arnold Schoenberg but is not a household name today, possibly owing to his Marxist affiliation and his belief that “music should not stir the emotions but rather be functional, applicable, ‘used for the theatre, cinema, cabaret, television, public events, etc.’” (Program notes by Kathryn J. Allwine Bacasmot.) Alone among these five composers in the concert, Eisler fled the Nazis because he was a Communist, and some years later, after being blacklisted by Hollywood, was deported from the U.S. for the very same reason. His most important collaborator was the writer Bertolt Brecht, who shared his political philosophies. Baritone Chris Pedro Trakas and pianist Randall Hodgkinson gave dramatic accounts of 16 selections from the Hollywood Songbook, whose texts largely concern the plight of political dissidents and refugees. These terse settings rather undermine Eisler’s ideal of functional, non-emotional music. Between the pain and anger permeating nearly all these texts and the intense delivery of Trakas and Hodgkinson, whether vehement or understated, the songs’ power to disturb was indisputable. To cite several highlights: Über den Selbstmord (“About suicide”), discussing times when miserable people are most tempted to end their lives, was mostly pianissimo and eerily seductive, with a jolting subito fortissimo on the final word (“throw their unendurable life away”). In Jeden Morgen . . . the artists fully conveyed Brecht’s mordant humor when describing the life of a screenwriter (or film composer): “Every morning to earn my bread, I go to the market where lies are peddled. Filled with hope, I line up with the other peddlers.” And we were made to feel the anguished irony of Die Heimkehr (The homecoming), a title used often enough in celebratory fashion by various 19th-century lieder composers, but here describing a return to a barely identifiable native city, enveloped in smoke and flame, just after the departure of “swarms of bombers.” One would expect mostly atonal settings of angry or morose texts to be a trial for the listener, but Trakas and Hodgkinson made a riveting theatrical experience of them.

As with Maurice Ravel and his Bolero, Ernst Toch found himself best known for a piece he considered an “unimportant diversion,” his Geographical Fugue for spoken chorus. However, he was another highly productive composer in nearly all genres who was awarded the Pulitzer Prize. Though he was a veteran of World War I, as a Jew he was compelled to leave Germany by Hitler’s rise to power. Rhodes and Hodgkinson played Toch’s atonal Sonata for Violin and Piano, Op. 44, from 1928, when he was still enjoying considerable success in the German musical avant garde. The first movement opened savagely — the tempo marking is Trotzig, anstürmend (“Defiant, charging”) — but progressed to imitative writing. Much of the musical interest is derived from the way the two instruments collaborate, sometimes independently, even at cross-purposes, other times in close concert. The sonata is seasoned throughout by flirtations with tonality and, particularly in the latter two movements, the composer’s permutations of rhythm. Rhodes’s and Hodgkinson’s playing was assured and polished, particularly the thrilling fiery conclusion which harkens back to the sonata’s beginning.

Louis Gruenberg was the one composer on this program who was not properly an “exile”; he was born in 1884 in Brest-Litovsk (now in Belarus, but then in Russia), but his family emigrated to New York when he was a few months old. He nonetheless crossed the Atlantic repeatedly to study and perform (he was a gifted pianist) in Vienna and Berlin until the arrival of World War I. Gruenberg’s charmingly titled Four Indiscretions, Op. 20, for string quartet, supplied a refreshing touch of levity in the program, as superbly played by violinists Ida Levin and Rhodes, violist Roger Tapping, and cellist Michael Reynolds. Though always interested in the latest compositional techniquest — the composer was a longtime close friend of Schoenberg’s — Gruenberg concentrated mostly on cultivating his “American idiom,” strongly influenced by ragtime, jazz, and spirituals. The first of the four pieces had the feel of a hoedown whose infectious fun was sprinkled with “wrong” notes. The slow movement gives the spotlight successively to each member of the quartet, who all shone both as soloists and ensemble members. The third piece has a jocular first violin part, but there is throughout an enjoyable alternation of the whimsical and the sober. The final piece is pompous and comical, with many laughs quite literally written into the music, and it would be hard to say who was enjoying themselves more, audience or quartet. According to the program notes, the Indiscretions are unrecorded; they would seem to be strong candidates for BCMS’s next recording.

The BCMS ensemble: violinists Ida Levin and Harumi Rhodes, violist Roger Tapping, pianist Mihae Lee, guest cellist Michael Reynolds, and violist Roger Tapping

The most famous of these exiled artists is the Austrian Erich Wolfgang Korngold, widely hailed as the foremost compositional child prodigy of his age. The Jewish Korngold had the good fortune to have just arrived in Hollywood when the annexation of Austria occurred. We heard first one of hisAbschiedslieder, Op. 14, (Songs of Farewell), Mond, so gehst du wieder auf (“Moon, thus you rise again”). The song on the surface is largely subdued, but there is a pronounced undercurrent of melancholy longing, even burning, skillfully brought out by the performers, Chris Pedro Trakas and Lee. The music only occasionally rose above mezzo piano, but the artists limned many nuances within the limited dynamic range.

The concert closed with Korngold’s Piano Quintet in E Major, Op. 15, sumptuously played by Levin, Rhodes, Tapping, Reynolds, and Lee. The work is replete with the composer’s characteristically rich harmonies and colors. Its emotional crux is the middle Adagio, whose theme is borrowed from the song previously heard. Here Korngold is painting on a larger canvas, and the theme is given considerably more development. We heard some beautifully delicate string playing from the quartet, combined with Lee’s velvety pianissimo piano sound, as well as an exquisite violin solo from Levin. A gradual build-up led to an extended climax before tapering off to a whispered ending that held the audience enthralled. The raging opening of the final movement in strings’ bare octaves soon unexpectedly transitioned to more playful music though the passion never disappeared altogether and reemerged fully in the brilliant coda. Bravo to BCMS and MIT for blowing the dust off some musical treasures that have been neglected for too long.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach, and choir member at Trinity Church, Copley Square and in the Back Bay Chorale.

Arcangelo Corelli’s Concerto Grosso in C Major, Op. 6, No. 10, opened the program with impeccable Baroque style, the Preludio notable for the seamless blending of concertino (the solo group) with the ripieno (the accompanying ensemble). Corelli’s counterpoint is not of the same order as Bach’s; one occasionally pitied the lower strings (including second violins) whose parts were perceptibly less interesting than that of the first violins. Still, all the players seemed to enjoy the music, giving the Allemanda a hearty schwung. The Corrente movement surprisingly started with a slow, more harmonically adventuresome introduction before launching into the vivace. The rhythm was also more varied here than before: regular hemiolas made their full effect, thanks to Boston Baroque’s immaculate ensemble. The following Allegro was rendered with vigor and ebullience; a number of phrases were reminiscent of the composer’s famous Christmas Concerto. The concluding Minuetto was brisk (marked vivace) without sacrificing its courtly elegance.

The Harp Concerto in B Flat Major, Op. 4, No. 6, of George Frideric Handel may be very much in the standard repertoire, but here Barbara Poeschl-Edrich played it on a (nowadays) quite unfamiliar instrument: the triple harp. Unlike the modern harp, this instrument has no pedals; instead, there are three sets of strings, the outer two corresponding to the piano’s white keys (diatonic), the inner to the black keys (accidentals). Given that the double-action mechanism found in today’s pedal harp wasn’t invented until the early nineteenth century, the triple harp is the instrument for which Handel wrote. The three ranks of strings are in such proximity that from even a fairly close distance the instrument appears virtually the same as a modern harp. This necessitates very precise fingerwork from the harpist, a difficulty that no doubt spurred the instrument’s later evolution. The triple harp is also more delicate in tone than its successor, but Poeschl-Edrich managed to produce a range of nuance even with its limited dynamic range. Pearlman and the orchestra were ever sensitive to this and created an intimacy more akin to chamber music than to a stereotypical concerto. The lamenting slow movement was especially moving, with extended, expressive harp solos.

In the next piece, Johann Sebastian Bach’s Concerto for Two Violins in D Minor (BWV 1043), the soloists were taken from within Boston Baroque: the principal first and second violins, Christina Day Martinson and Julie Leven, respectively. This delicious work gives us a stimulating dialogue between the two soloists as well as between the first and second violin sections which were, of course, positioned facing each other. The sense of a pair who can “finish each other’s sentences” was ever present in the animated first movement. The cozy warmth of the slow movement had the same exchange, though occasionally the “wrong” solo voice would emerge somewhat over the actual melody, perhaps from the subconscious instinct that the upper voice will always have the main tune. It ain’t necessarily so — particularly in Bach. Nonetheless, the beautiful playing evoked a fine vocal duet with sensitive accompaniment. The agitated final movement gave the soloists somewhat more opportunity for technical display as well as a delightful passage in which the soloists actually accompany the orchestra. As a demonstration of collegial music-making, this performance would be hard to top.

After an intermission which supplied Champagne to toast the new year, the second half consisted of two pieces of Antonio Vivaldi which decidedly don’t fit the widespread conception of the composer as almost entirely a string composer. Our radio host, Cathy Fuller, had an illuminating preliminary conversation with Martin Pearlman about Vivaldi’s position as music teacher at a Venetian girls’ orphanage, the Ospedale della Pietà, in which he developed formidable musical skills in a number of the orphans. These soloists, being young girls, had to perform behind screens, as it was thought improper for audiences to see them. The first piece, Concerto in A Minor for Sopranino Recorder (RV 445), was composed for one of these talented students. The soloist here was Aldo Abreu (who had previously lent a lovely recorder color to the orchestra accompanying Barbara Poeschl-Edrich in the Handel concerto). The sopranino recorder — like the piccolo — sounds an octave higher than its soprano counterpart. It is certainly a challenge to compose “serious” music for such a high-pitched instrument (one thinks immediately of the chuckle produced by Papageno’s pipes), but Vivaldi has left us a very fine work brought to life wonderfully by Abreu. On this diminutive instrument, I’m tempted to describe Abreu’s work as “prestidigitation,” but there was no legerdemain possible here: as with the triple harp, the fingerwork had to be, and was, extremely precise. There seemed to be no type of virtuosity neglected by Vivaldi, including a stupendous passage that seemed to demand circular breathing, though Abreu stated it was done all on one immense breath. The slow movement, by contrast, allowed the expressive gifts of the player to be heard, including vibrato and dynamic nuance. I was most grateful for a rare opportunity to hear this unusual work, particularly in such a brilliant performance.

The official program closed with Vivaldi’s motet for solo soprano, Nulla in mundo pax sincera (There is no genuine peace in the world) with an anonymous religious text. The singer was Mary Wilson, a lyric coloratura with a very attractive balance of clear tone and warmth. The first aria’s gist is that the world is full of torment and only in Jesus is there sweet contentment, but Vivaldi’s music focuses on the latter idea with its happy siciliano rhythm. The return of the A section brought some lovely ornamentation from Wilson, the most florid melisma coming appropriately on “Jesu.” The recitative that followed urges the listener to flee the deceitful smiler. Wilson produced an exceptional burst of coloratura on “fugiamus” (“let us flee”); we were also treated to some fine, creative continuo playing from harpsichordist Peter Sykes. The second aria warns of a venomous snake concealed in beautiful blossoms, but a man maddened by love (the carnal type, no doubt) will often lick the poison as if it were honey. Wilson sang this with an ironic smile and enjoyed the greater opportunity for technical display. The motet concludes with an Alleluia movement that rivals, if not surpasses, Mozart’s version for coloratura fireworks. Wilson tossed it off with panache and joie de vivre.

An encore was a foregone conclusion, but the choice was wonderfully bizarre: the — no doubt — premier performance on period instruments of “Glitter and Be Gay” from Leonard Bernstein’s Candide but an appropriate choice, nonetheless, for a WGBH broadcast, since this was once the theme music for WGBH-TV’s Evening at Pops. The song, of course, is the ultimate diva piece, with its manic-depressive mood swings and still more coloratura fireworks. Wilson had a ball with it, getting a big laugh by changing “Here I am in Paris, France” to “… Cambridge, Mass,” and again sailing through the spectacular vocal part without a hint of effort.

If this New Year’s Day broadcast becomes an annual event like the Boston Baroque concert already is, we may very soon have a celebration here in “our fair city” to rival Vienna’s apotheosis of the waltz.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach and currently sings in the choir of Trinity Church

We began with a look backwards: Alexander Siloti’s transcription of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Prelude in B Minor. After Siloti (a Russian student of Liszt) transposed the piece, reversed the hands, and discovered a hidden melody within it, it was virtually a different piece from what Bach conceived, but Lewin made a strong case for this somewhat uneasy hybrid of nineteenth and eighteenth centuries, with emphasis on the former.

The first Liszt piece heard was the celebrated Vallée d’Obermann. Étienne Pivert de Sénancour’s novel, Obermann, a source of solace and enlightenment for Liszt, was also the inspiration for this arch-romantic effusion that Lewin’s program notes characterized without exaggeration as a “tone poem.” Lewin’s tonal range was immense: a particularly prominent example was a passage of infernal bass roars followed by a pause (the pianist often held one breathless with dramatic silences) and then a section of celestial lightness in the upper reaches of the keyboard. The many sighing figures ached with Sehnsucht, heightened by generous rubato. The numerous virtuoso sections were played truly in the grand manner without a hint of “playing it safe.”

The other revolutionary pianist/composer of the era with whom Liszt had a mutual admiration society was Frédéric Chopin, represented here by two études from his op. 10 (dedicated to Liszt). No. 6 in E flat Minor conveyed a deep melancholy, played legatissimo with liberal pedaling but never blurring the chromatic murmuring of the left hand. No. 5 in G-flat Major (“Black Keys”), lightly pedaled, fizzed and sparkled delightfully. A much less familiar concert étude followed: Manchega, op. 35, by the American Creole pianist/composer Louis Moreau Gottschalk who went to Paris as a teenager to study with Liszt. This showy piece, composed in Spain, had a virtually unrelenting high energy, and Lewin reveled in its near-constant syncopations and the tattoo of left-hand chords like drums. To round off the étude group, Liszt’s own Transcendental Étude No. 10 in F Minor was played with amazing mastery, meeting multiple fiendish technical challenges such as rapid martellato interlocked chords, octaves and double-octaves, arpeggios, etc. A couple gentler passages were more than faintly reminiscent of Chopin’s own F Minor Étude (op. 10, no. 9).

Sophie Menter was the most renowned female student of Liszt and was another virtuoso who also composed. Her Romance, op. 5, was pleasant enough, but one yearned for a piece that made a more lasting impression. This was rather standard-issue romanticism, the melody nearly always stepwise and the accompaniment mostly arpeggios. Lewin did what he could with it, and his exquisitely attenuated touch at the conclusion drew a purr of pleasure from the audience.

Many of Carl Tausig’s contemporaries considered him to be Liszt’s greatest protégé, though, sadly, he did not reach age 30. His The Ghost Ship: Symphonic Ballade, op. 1c, describing a Norse legend, is an impressive achievement for an opus 1. Practically every device in a virtuoso pianist’s arsenal is exploited to illustrate a fierce storm at sea and a Viking ship’s encounter with the titular Ghost Ship. Moreover, Tausig’s harmony is ingenious, especially the diabolical implications of tritones and an early use of the whole-tone scale. Once again, Lewin threw caution to the wind (pardon the expression) with electrifying results as he vividly depicted huge waves, crashing thunder, and lightning.

Following intermission we heard Liszt’s transcription of J. S. Bach’s great organ Fugue in G Minor, from BWV 542, with possibly the most tuneful of all the master’s fugue subjects. This was stated entirely staccato except for the paired 16th notes, giving it an odd spiky quality; but as more voices entered, this staccato thankfully was largely abandoned. The performance was notable for its polyphonic rigor and driving rhythm but was unfortunately marred by a major memory lapse, forcing the pianist to improvise, not too convincingly, though the propulsive rhythm was mostly maintained. Once Lewin was back on track the fugue proceeded smoothly, though the rapid bass octaves nearing the end (played by the feet on the organ) were regrettably heavy-handed and overly emphatic.

Liszt also made solo piano transcriptions of large numbers of songs by a wide array of composers. The artist gave us three examples: Spring by Chopin; The Nightingale by Alexander Alabieff; and On Wings of Song by Felix Mendelssohn. The conventional wisdom is that Chopin’s songs are not his best music, but this performance belied that. Liszt was sensitive to the simple charm of this wistful song and refrained from pianistic elaboration; Lewin likewise rendered it with the directness of a folk song, albeit with sensitive touch. Alabieff’s nightingale, however, gave Liszt the opportunity, eagerly seized, to write cadenzas of birdsong alternating with several Slavic themes. In one passage the two concepts were combined: a long trill in the middle of the texture with voices on either side. Lewin made it sound easy. One suspects On Wings of Song was one of Mendelssohn’s most popular creations in Liszt’s time, as in ours. Liszt’s elaboration on the original is of a sympathetic type, not a virtuoso vehicle. He places the melody initially in the tenor range, rather than the soprano, and for the final verse creates a charming duet. Lewin played the piece affectionately, with warm, cantabile tone.

The next original Liszt composition was a transcription of his own song, Petrarch Sonnet No. 123. Inspired by the 14th-century Italian poet’s immortal sonnets concerning romantic love, Liszt set three of them to music in 1838, and 20 years later transcribed them for solo piano. Lewin’s fine performance wholly justified this piece’s warhorse status. The joys and sufferings of love were given vivid expression; indeed, all contrasts were fully realized: vigor and delicacy, yin and yang, masculine and feminine, …

The program finished with an excerpt from one of Liszt’s opera “concert paraphrases”: the Waltz from Charles Gounod’s Faust. The first theme was given initially in grand fashion, evoking a great ballroom filled with dancing couples, then repeated much more intimately. A calmer central section allowed the pianist to catch his breath, though there were some brilliant, decorative fioriture like shooting stars. The final section featured possibly the most spectacular virtuoso fireworks on the program: very rapid repeated notes interspersed with octaves, glissandi, treacherous leaps in both hands, on and on. As before, Lewin plunged into the breach, nothing daunted, and gave us a hair-raising performance.

The well-deserved standing ovation led to one encore: appropriately enough, Claude Debussy’s Feux d’artifice (Fireworks), one of his most Lisztian works. Lewin again demonstrated a finely calibrated range of touch, so it was a pity that a short section of the piece was lost to a memory slip. Still, he generated plenty of atmosphere, explosive and exhilarating at one turn, seductively caressing at another.

In an age of antiseptic digital perfectionism, there are not many pianists who, playing live, “go for broke” in this hard-core virtuoso repertoire. It is wonderful to encounter one for whom intensity of expression and the irreplaceable excitement of true bravura are higher priorities than absolutely immaculate execution. Michael Lewin is one such. May he prosper.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach and currently sings in the choir of Trinity Church.

Angela Hewitt (Mike Rocha photo)

Having heard renowned Canadian pianist Angela Hewitt praised rapturously more than once, I wondered if she would fully live up to such fulsome praise. I am delighted to say that my own belated first encounter with her artistry at the Celebrity Series of Boston at Jordan Hall on Friday, December 2, was a revelation that I will long remember. As she initially made her reputation with her playing of Johann Sebastian Bach, it was no surprise that he was one of the two composers on her program. The other, in an unusual pairing, was Claude Debussy. The two composers were alternated, making it easier to see how the later one often drew inspiration from the Baroque as well as showing how some aspects of Hewitt’s Bach cross-fertilized her performance of the vastly different Debussy.

In the opening French Suite No. 4 in E-Flat Major of Bach, the pianist’s gifts for this repertoire were immediately apparent: her pearly tone which rendered every polyphonic voice pellucid; the rock-solid rhythm giving the music a strong but never rigid backbone; and her dynamics, which simply stated what is implied on the page. As the piano has greater sustaining power than the harpsichord, a pianist must have a comprehensive command of articulation in this literature, and Hewitt’s is most impressive. The merry romp of the fourth suite’s Courante provided a fine example in the contrast of legato right hand and articulated left hand. The artist didn’t stint on expressivity, either. The Sarabande was beautifully pensive; Hewitt showed how a simple ascending scale could be made into a moving experience in her gifted hands. Moreover, in the concluding Gigue she clearly was having fun, which made it easy for the audience to do the same.

Debussy’s Suite Bergamasque followed, most of whose pieces “tip their hats” to the Baroque and simultaneously cultivate the style soon-to -be-christened “musical impressionism.” The Prélude, in particular, showed this dichotomy: some sections’ texture was as clear as the preceding Bach, while others used splashes of pedal color to paint musical gestures in a typically nineteenth-century style. In the Menuet Hewitt imparted a sly humor with her slightly off-balance opening theme; here too her articulation was delectable. She opted not to go the individualistic route in the overwhelmingly popular Clair de lune but simply used her highly nuanced touch to produce such a ravishing account it would be very hard to quibble. The many intimate passages were velvet and satin, while the bigger moments retained the sheen of sterling silver. The fully voiced chordal passages could as well have been polyphony, the melody simply “first among equals,” and the many arpeggios liquid and diaphanous. The Passepied, while not being in triple time as it would be in the Baroque, had an appropriate energy; the clopping accompaniment evoked a horseback journey through various landscapes. The artist provided a lesson in the differing types of staccato.

Next came Bach’s French Suite No. 6 in E Major, exhibiting all the virtues heard earlier in Suite No. 4. Additionally, the Sarabande illustrated the use of trills as ornamentation, to be sure, but also as a means of enhancing the movement’s expressivity. The “unusual” movement, Polonaise, was a simple and modest one, and Hewitt gave us an appropriately straightforward account, an effective “palate-cleanser” for the movements around it. The succeeding Bourrée was a thematic cousin to the Polonaise, but its mood was rollicking high spirits and featured a stimulating repartee between the two hands.

The second half began with Bach’s French Suite No. 5 in G Major. Its Allemande was not unlike those of the fourth and sixth suites heard earlier, but the pianist allowed herself slightly more rhythmic freedom on repeats this time, always well within the bounds of le bon goût, that rather elusive musical concept inadequately translated as “good taste.” The Gavotte, one of the most familiar of Bach’s keyboard pieces, had an attractive swagger in Hewitt’s hands and featured somewhat more ornamentation on repeats than we had previously heard. The brilliant Gigue was nothing short of a tour de force, but Hewitt‘s virtuosity was always the servant of the music. The opening had such a wondrous lightness that I envisioned fairy entourages dancing for Oberon and Titania. On repeat, however, it became much bolder, the most greatly contrasted repeat we heard from any of the suites. If the final cadence was hugely emphatic, one could forgive the pianist a bit of Romantic-style bravura after such a thrilling performance.

We returned to Debussy with his three-movement Suite: Pour le piano. The Prélude opened fiercely but soon subsided into a marvelously veiled sound, though its energy remained unabated. The great chordal passages had a steely brilliance, capped by glissandi fortissimi played in the grand manner. The beautiful, Satie-esque Sarabande was characterized by Hewitt’s direct, unfussy playing, though she did take a little time to savor the marvelous passage of parallel dominant 7th chords. She also used her subito piano to fine effect. Her rendition of the Toccata had the same dichotomy heard in Suite Bergamasque’s Prélude: the clarity and delicacy of harpsichord-playing contrasted with washes of color. Regarding the latter, however, there are several passages where the composer’s rapid-fire sequences of complex harmonies perhaps unintentionally become such “washes” at the specified very fast tempo. Indeed, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard any pianist who could clarify these passages except by making too great a sacrifice, i.e., choosing a slower tempo that loses the quicksilver brilliance that is the essence of the piece. Hewitt did not buck this trend, but opted for the lesser of two evils. Nonetheless, hers remained a highly accomplished and memorable rendering of the suite.

The final piece on the program — and the only one not attached to a suite — was Debussy’s L’isle joyeuse which, as the program notes aptly stated, had roots in Baroque art rather than music. The composer was inspired by Jean-Antoine Watteau’s painting “Pilgrimage to Cythera” (the birthplace of Aphrodite, goddess of love). Once again Hewitt’s sovereign command of touch and dynamic nuance was tellingly employed, this time illustrating multiple types of joy — everything from barely restrained simmering to ecstatic proclamations. The symbolically swelling chords of the second theme managed, at their climactic recapitulation, to be both grandly expansive and caressing. (The passionately rising and falling arpeggios supporting the chords may have had something to do with it.) At the conclusion, the frenzied hammering of Lydian A-major chords and the wild plunge to the bottom note of the piano quickly elicited a standing ovation.

After a demanding program performed with such focused concentration, it was generous of the artist to give us even the one encore: “Golliwogg’s Cake Walk” from Debussy’s Children’s Corner Suite. (The composer gave English titles.) For this French conception of ragtime, Hewitt gave us deliciously sassy and rambunctious outer sections and impeccable comic timing in the more laid-back middle section, spoofing Tristan und Isolde.

There were some striking parallels between this fine recital and that of Hewitt’s countryman, Peter Hill, on October 11 at Boston Conservatory. In the latter, Hill also featured only two composers: Bach and Olivier Messiaen (whose early works were influenced by Debussy). Though their styles are hardly identical, both pianists have rare control of nuance and color as well as a penetrating perception of counterpoint. In October I declared that I longed to hear what Hill would make of the occasional mainstream piece. Conversely, it would be fascinating to hear how Hewitt would play Messiaen and his protégés. But in the end, one expects rich rewards from her in any repertoire she chooses, thanks to her rare combination of immaculate technique, powerful intellect, and sheer joy of sharing music she clearly loves.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach and currently sings in the choir of Trinity Church.

The Fanfare and Fugue of Ned Rorem (b. 1923) made an effective opener, the fanfare grabbing one’s attention with its angular introduction and astringent harmonic language as well as a contrasting calmer section featuring “sweet and sour” harmonies. The fugue subject was recognizable in multi-voice textures only by its rhythmic profile, the fugue being largely composed of harmonic non sequiturs. Fortunately, Lippincott’s rhythm and articulation kept the proceedings clear throughout.

J. S. Bach’s Passacaglia in c minor was notable for eschewing the kaleidoscopic changes of registration often heard in this great set of variations over a pedal ostinato. Though there were a handful of changes in stop combinations, Lippincott created variation more often with articulation, beginning detached (the generous acoustics of the church ensuring that the texture was never dry) and progressing through degrees of legato. The final “variation” is a tremendous fugue of three subjects: the passacaglia’s ostinato, the fugue subject, and countersubject. Lippincott clearly delineated the three subjects at all times and built to a thunderous conclusion. For a marked contrast in mood, Bach’s great setting of Schmücke dich, o liebe Seele (Bedeck Thyself, My Soul, With Gladness) was heard next, one of the master’s most beautiful and comforting works. I found the artist’s tempo slightly brisk and the plentiful ornamentation initially more businesslike than expressive though this improved as the piece progressed.

Another demanding masterpiece followed in Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s Fantasia in f minor (K. 608). One of two f-minor fantasies Mozart wrote for a mechanical organ run by clockwork, K. 608 is the stormier, more dramatic of the two. The fortissimo opening was bracing, thanks to Lippincott’s bristling ornaments and electric dotted rhythms. Despite a registration that was a trifle heavy, the succeeding fugue’s polyphony remained reasonably clear. The central slow movement, in a luminous A-flat Major, featured a delicious interplay between a secondary 8-foot principal and a liquid 8-foot flute as well as warm, tender playing. After the return of the opening material which brought us from A-flat back to f-minor, the fugue made its second appearance in elaborated form. Anyone who hasn’t played or seen this score would have had no idea of the convolutions this work puts a human player through: Lippincott’s rendering made it sound utterly natural.

Jehan Alain, it is universally agreed, is one of the great organ composers of the twentieth century, despite his tragically premature death at twenty-nine, an early casualty of World War II. Perhaps his greatest masterpiece is the Trois Danses which the composer conceived for orchestra but had barely begun to orchestrate when he was killed. It remains, however, a highly effective organ work whose emotional impact is equaled by very few others. The first dance, “Joies” (Joys), begins with several phrases of contrasted and quite unusual reed stop combinations; Lippincott’s registrations were creative (on a medium-sized instrument such as this, one can only approximate the composer’s specifications) and effective. The movement’s second theme, stated first in the pedal, had the requisite jazzy “swing.” “Joies” became gradually more exciting through the addition of more voices and stops as well as polyrhythmic complexity, climaxing with a fortissimo chordal trill. Lippincott swept us along to the emotional crest. There followed a coda with a mournful little tune as transition to the next dance. “Deuils” (Griefs), presciently subtitled “Funeral dance to honor the memory of a hero,” is another passacaglia, though interrupted at times by themes other than the main ostinato. Through well-chosen registrations and skillful use of the swell-box, Lippincott achieved a more gradual and nuanced build-up than many organists achieve. A repetitive chordal sequence based on the first part of the ostinato, however, was taken slightly too fast, and consequently the fast-repeated chords were not usually perceptible as such. The tempo continued to quicken as we were carried headlong to a searing climax. The emotional traction of this approach was powerful indeed, but it came at the price of detail. There followed a moving section with dialogue between string celeste and a weeping flute stop, and a final section of forlorn monody. The last dance, Luttes(Struggles), unites themes from the previous two. At the beginning, the artist made fine use of dramatic pauses between phrases. Soon the tempo picked up a bit, and the repeated-chord figure from Deuils reappeared, this time emerging clearly. The climactic final page was taken faster than the norm–the last chord clipped so short it didn’t quite register–but if the objective again was maximum emotional impact, it was achieved. Altogether, it was a stunning performance of Trois Danses.

The program closed with a bravura reading of Franz Liszt’s Prelude and Fugue on B-A-C-H Liszt was just one of many composers to pay tribute to Bach by using the letters of his name: in German nomenclature B is b-flat and H is B natural, thus b-flat-A-C-B natural (the program notes incorrectly stated “B,A,C,Bb”).The idea was originated by Bach himself, who worked his name into Contrapunctus XIX of The Art of the Fugue. Lippincott enjoyed the grand romantic gesture, using liberal rubato and making the prelude (and much of the fugue) feel like a free improvisation. The B-A-C-H. motive is heard almost continuously and in a staggering array of different harmonizations, some quite hair-raising for a 19^th-century composer. Only once did an overly fast tempo cause a loss of clarity: one climax of the fugue has a long pedal point when the right hand trills for many measures and the left plays a portion of the fugue subject in a descending chromatic sequence. The left hand has the important part, but here it was blurred by speed and being too nearly legato. Otherwise it was a flawless, virtuosic, and thrilling performance, Lippincott saving absolutely full organ for the final pair of phrases, a sensational ending.

There was a single encore that I would guess to be a piece by Franz Josef Haydn written for the same type of clockwork organ for which Mozart wrote his fantasy. It showcased the beauty of Fisk’s flute stops and was irresistibly charming. Her biography states that Lippincott, formerly of New Jersey, now lives on Cape Cod. I’m sure many will join me in hoping that she will be a frequent recitalist in greater Boston in the future. Her virtuosity is in no doubt, and her command of a variety of different idioms is both instructive and musically satisfying.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach and currently sings in the choir of Trinity Church.

We commenced with four pieces for bass viol and theorbo by the mysterious Louis Caix d’Hervelois, who was regarded in the eighteenth century as the third member, with Marin Marais and Antoine Forqueray, of the “Empire de la Viole.” The declamatory opening chords of the Prélude demonstrated the surprising amount of reverberation in what is, after all, a fairly small space. The duo took full advantage of this acoustic which particularly favored the wonderfully deep bass notes of Henriksen’s theorbo. The Sarabande was a special highlight, beautiful and stately; Lewis’s many double stops were silken, and her “bridges” between phrases (almost miniature cadenzas), whether indicated on the printed page or not, sounded like spontaneous ornamentation by an inspired player. Given the otherwise fine playing of the duo, it was a pity that the four pieces were slightly marred by moments of ill-tuning from time to time.

Robert de Visée was an accomplished lutenist who enjoyed the special distinction of being invited sometimes to entertain King Louis XIV (the “Sun King”) in his private quarters. Henriksen favored us with three of de Visée’s pieces — Prélude, La Mascarade, and Chaconne — played without pause. The latter two were originally written for chamber ensemble; arranging pre-existing music for different combinations was commonplace at the time, and generally a listener would be none the wiser. These pieces, while making extensive use of the theorbo’s rich baritone register, contained two-voice and even some three-voice polyphony which Henriksen rendered with assurance, clarity and seductive sound.

At least a generation older than the other Baroque composers on the program, Jean de Sainte-Colombe was a very influential viol player and composer. Little is known about him, but he is credited with introducing over-spun strings and adding a seventh string (low A) to the bass viol. One of the four solo viol pieces played, Pianelle (a term whose meaning is obscure), was an enjoyably jaunty “spring dance” in the Edvard Grieg sense, i.e., “spring” as a verb, not the season. The concluding Gigue was something of a display piece, played here with panache and a wide dynamic range. Even though Lewis’s stylish rubato made it rhythmically a bit too free for actual dancing (which was probably not the composer’s intention at any rate), in her hands there was no doubt about its terpsichorean inspiration.

The first half ended with duo music by the most famous of viol composers, Marin Marais: three pieces selected from a Suite in a Foreign Taste (d’un goût étranger, amusingly given by the program notes as “in a strange taste”). The opening Allemande la Singulière was indeed singular for being an allemande in triple meter. La Rêveuse (the dreamer) was not enjoying an altogether pleasant dream, as the colorful music was characterized by many stops and starts through which the duo’s ensemble remained exemplary. Those expecting L’Arabesque to be languorous and sensual (a Baroque ancestor of Tchaikovsky’s “Arabian Coffee Dance”) were surprised by an extroverted, even vigorous, character piece of bright, sunny mood, played with stirring élan.

After intermission Lewis switched to the pardessus de viole, and Henriksen remained on the theorbo for one more piece. The pardessus visually resembles the violin but is held between the legs and bowed in the same manner as its larger viol siblings. In the Baroque and Rococo periods, playing the violin was considered quite unladylike, and consequently the pardessus was popular with “ladies of quality.” Joseph Bodin de Boismortier’s Second Sonata, despite its name, was a standard dance suite of four movements. A highlight was the Rondeau, Gracieusement which featured a more prominent theorbo part than those heard earlier, at times approaching a melodic equal partnership with the viol. The final Gigue was elegant rather than rollicking. Lewis gave us some nicely contrasted articulations, and the duo concluded the work with a beautifully hushed echo of the last phrase.

Henriksen then brought out a Baroque guitar for the rest of the program, starting with several solo pieces by the gifted guitarist/composer Giacomo Merchi, a native Neapolitan who settled in Paris. Naples being then part of Spain, a discernible Spanish influence permeated these works. The Prélude ou Caprice, for instance, featured melodies in octaves with arpeggiated accompaniments, while the energetic Menuet I, II was punctuated at unpredictable times by dramatically accented “strums” (excuse my layman’s term) that are a hallmark of flamenco style. Henriksen was a seasoned guide in this “multilingual” music.

Next came three character pieces by Charles Dollé. Le Breton was translated in the notes as “the headstrong,” though I can find no other meaning in my French dictionary than Breton — perhaps a bit of period ethnic stereotyping? In any case, the duo’s robust performance bore out the translated title, boldly charging ahead. La Tissier (the spinning-wheel) did not have the expected moto perpetuo (Schubert’s famous song, Gretchen am Spinnrade, being the classic example); instead it resembled a courtly dance in triple time. La Victoire was earthier, with many phrases ending with emphatic double stops on the pardessus in the manner of foot stomps. The musicians conveyed the fun of non-intellectual character painting.

Rounding off the program was Sonata 6a en forme de scène by Pierre Jean Porro, a work of six short movements written soon after the French Revolution. In the category of “storm and stress” which bridged the late Rococo/Classical and early Romantic periods, this striking piece mimics an operatic scena with its unforeseen mood shifts and dramatically disjointed chords evoking recitative. The third movement (Grazioso) was akin to a dignified and graceful aria. Though the fourth movement was marked Allegro furioso presto, I didn’t hear anything recognizably furioso until near the end of the sonata, but better late than never! The musicians gave us a thrilling conclusion.

Duo Maresienne gave vivid realizations of this esoteric but red-blooded and colorful repertoire. One was grateful as well for their spoken remarks that complemented the printed program notes well, both being informative and interesting to the average listener.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach and currently sings in the choir of Trinity Church.

CFA’s year-long programming theme for 2011-12 is violence; fortunately, Heggie’s very sizable song output allows for a variety of perspectives on this theme. In his remarks the composer noted, for instance, that while we still regrettably hear of instances of overt violence every day, there also exists the subtler psychic violence that can occur in human relationships, even those within a family.

The first group of songs set texts by Sister Helen Prejean, CSJ, best known as the author of Dead Man Walking and as perhaps the nation’s most prominent activist to abolish the death penalty. Its opening gave me my one moment of apprehension about the advisability of staging songs: the mezzo soprano Lauren Lyles began in a rocking chair with her back to a third of the audience, including myself, which made comprehending the text problematic at times. The texts of the first two songs, “Advent” and “Darkness,” concern the short days preceding the winter solstice when darkness is ascendant, and the staging had the singer moving from chair to bed. Yet Sister Helen makes the point that darkness isn’t necessarily negative; night is also a time of reflection, new ideas, dreams, and rejuvenation. Like the author, Heggie doesn’t always make the conventional choice. The song “Darkness” is more energetic, jazzy at times. The final song, “Music,” opens and closes with unaccompanied vocalises, and its soothing harmonies reassure that music can comfort even those on death row.

In Heggie’s “Yellow Roses in a Vase” (from the song cycle A Question of Light, with text by Gene Scheer), the singer is sometimes a third-person narrator, sometimes first-person sharing memories, stricken with grief and survivor’s guilt: he is one of fourteen survivors from a company of 200 soldiers. Baritone Christiaan Smith-Kotlarek conveyed an affecting vulnerability while maintaining clear diction and full tone. “Stars” (A. E. Housman) depicts the falling of stars like raindrops into the ocean which nonetheless remains salty. Tenor Brendan Daly sang with stellar purity, and Heggie painted vividly with cascading thirds on the keyboard. In a complete about-face, the same performers gave an intensely dramatic rendering of “Incantation Bowl” (Gene Scheer), enhanced by Nathan Troup’s twitchy, obsessive staging. (An incantation bowl was once thought to be a means of trapping a demon haunting a house and removing it from the premises.

In two songs from the cycle “Facing Forward, Looking Back,” soprano Sonja Krenek and mezzo soprano Amanda Tarver portrayed a mother and daughter whose past relationship (the mother is deceased) was rocky. In the first song, “Mother in the Mirror” (Armistead Maupin), mom’s ghost drives her daughter batty with the guilt-tripping, for which some mothers have a genius. Sharon Daniels’s very physical staging and the two singers’ striking dramatic and musical talents resulted in a darkly comedic tour de force. Then, in another complete about-face, mom turns gentle, forgiving in “Facing Forward” (the moving text by a 19-year-old Jake Heggie). Heggie’s music too became flowing and lovely as the loving mother gives her child advice to confront the future. There were likely very few dry eyes after the performance of this pair of songs.

The next three songs were taken from the cycle “For a Look or a Touch” (Gene Scheer) and dealt with the painful plight of gay people in Germany before and after World War II. Making use of a narrator, Jim Petosa, director of BU’s School of Theater, and a fine cellist, Robert Mayes, the songs spanned quite an emotional spectrum: the giddy party scene of Berlin between the wars, the grim torture and killing in concentration camps of homosexuals in wartime, and their fear-ridden isolation even afterwards (homosexuality remained a criminal offense in Germany until 1970). Heggie wrote himself an extremely showy, cabaret-influenced piano part in the first song, “Golden Years,” and went to town while baritone Jonathan Cole convincingly portrayed a flirtatious party-boy. In “The Story of Joe” the horrific details of the torture and killing of a gay man are shared by his surviving friend; the music and Troup’s staging combined for a chilling performance. In “Silence,” the narrator’s character, Gad, looks back decades later on his continuing isolation after the war: he couldn’t come out to anybody and wonders would he have done so if he could. Cole plays the ghost of Gad’s lover who caresses him, but it remains a doleful scene with the muted cello playing soft laments and ending on a bare fifth without piano. Petosa’s narrations shunned histrionics but resonated deeply.

The program ended with the complete cycle Pieces of 9/11, premiered on the tenth anniversary of that awful day. After a tensely chromatic solo piano Prelude, the first song, “Lauren,” concerns the passenger on United Flight 93 who said farewell to family members via cell phone and then passed the phone around to others who wanted to do likewise. Sopranos Shannon Miller and Meredeth Kelly and bass-baritone Adrian Smith affectingly depicted Lauren’s family members who recall her traits and her farewell call. In “Lessons” a schoolteacher wearing a head-scarf speaks of parents arriving at the school at midday on 9/11 to take their young children home and one father, an imposing man, speaking threateningly to her. Soprano Celeste Fraser gave a sympathetic portrayal of a Muslim who is “also a grieving American.” Perhaps the dramatic peak of the cycle is “That Moment On,” returned as a search/recover worker at Manhattan’s Ground Zero whose work emotionally affects him in unexpected ways. Finding a piece of a picture, various personal effects of World Trade Center office workers, even a fragment of bone makes him feel an expanded sense of kinship with those lost. “We belonged to each other from that moment on.” Christiaan Smith-Kotlarek and Heggie began modestly and built to a devastating climax. Gentler but hardly less moving was the next song, “Beyond.” An angelic figure advises victims’ loved ones to “walk beyond anger and sorrow” or they will let the terrorists win. Soprano Katrina Galka had just the right purity of voice and, blue jeans aside, looked the part. The final song, “An Open Book,” unites themes of the previous two, describing the process of going through a 9/11 victim’s belongings and the difficulty of letting go. Heggie’s piano part extensively quotes the prelude of J. S. Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1, possibly as a symbol of enduring beauty and consolation. The song, however, ends quietly a cappella on a musical question mark, perhaps suggesting that the healing process is even now not over for some.

Following the performance was a question-and-answer session with singers, stage directors, and the composer. It was interesting to delve further into the genesis of these songs, but generally speaking they spoke for themselves through the efforts of all these talented artists.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach and currently sings in the choir of Trinity Church.

Kurt Masur conducts the BSO with pianist Nicholas Angelich (Stu Rosner photo)

On Thursday, October 20^th, the audience of the Boston Symphony Orchestra was privileged to hear a program consisting of two large works of Johannes Brahms, conducted by one of the great elder statesmen among conductors, Kurt Masur, former music director of the Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra and the New York Philharmonic. The scheduled piano soloist, Yefim Bronfman, was unable to appear due to a finger injury, but we were fortunate that a capable replacement, Nicholas Angelich, was found on short notice and there was no need to change the program.

The evening opened with Brahms’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in B Flat, opus 83, a piano concerto cum symphony which fairly frequently re-imagines the traditional Romantic Period roles of soloist and accompanying orchestra. After a caressing introductory dialogue with the solo horn, the sudden shift to forte in the piano part occasioned some borderline strident playing. Perhaps being accustomed to other concert halls, Angelich hadn’t fully adapted to the fabled benevolent acoustics of Symphony Hall. Fortunately, though, this “projecting” didn’t persist beyond the opening minutes and the epic first movement had a grandeur the more noble for being un-forced. Through the close collaboration of Masur and Angelich came a performance that served both the Romantic and Classical sides of Brahms’s style. Though the composer was a committed proponent of “absolute music”, the wonderful range of moods in this work must surely point to a self-portrait, self-admitted or not. Yet if this is a Romantic concept, it is balanced by the Classical principle (via the examples of Mozart and Beethoven) of an equal partnership between soloist and orchestra. A fine example of this is Brahms’s stormy second movement—Allegro appassionato—when piano and orchestra continually exchange soloist and accompaniment roles. I for one was struck by the difference in this regard between this live performance and my several classic recordings of the piece. Through the wonders of microphone placement, even when the piano should be part of the background, it still stands out on those recordings. Angelich was modest enough not to “hog the spotlight” when it was intended to be on the orchestra; each deferred to the other when appropriate. Passion was the common denominator, and there was plenty of it, though it never troubled the tight ensemble within the orchestra or between it and the piano (thank you, Maestro Masur).

In the sumptuous slow movement the spotlight shines on the solo cello almost as much as on the piano, and Jules Eskin gave us chastely beautiful playing in the Classical manner, supported by the burnished gold of the lower strings around him. Entering on gossamer wings, Angelich’s piano playing had the graceful line of a Chopin nocturne though growing more demonstrative at times. One especially magical moment stood out from many: following a pianissimo minor variation on the main theme, there was a sudden ppp harmonic shift to a remote key when it seemed performers and audience alike held their breath. Later, after a rapturous concluding phrase, one wanted to bask in the glow of the final chord, but with barely a break to take a breath the performers launched into the final movement. After the intensity (wonderful though it is) of the first three movements, the fourth was welcome for its delightful light-heartedness, even playfulness. There were delectable interludes of chamber music with piano and woodwinds as well as a “Hungarian” secondary theme to add a little gypsy flavor. After the decisive conclusion of the concerto, the audience expressed its approval heartily. Angelich made his Boston Symphony debut under less than ideal conditions, but he certainly proved his mettle conclusively.

After intermission came the Symphony No. 3 in F Major, opus 90, a work standing apart from Brahms’s other three symphonies for its cyclical construction featuring thematic connections among the first, second, and fourth movements. Also differentiating this symphony from Brahms’s three others is its leaner instrumentation. Nonetheless, Masur obtained an impressive range of textures and colors from the orchestra (in this regard, Masur’s interesting sartorial statement—a long, black shirt with a stock collar resembling an artist’s smock, albeit more formal—seemed most apt).

The winds are given a special emphasis throughout. In the first movement, for instance, they delivered the second theme with a sweetly autumnal color and an intimacy that complemented the declamation of the opening theme as played by the strings. In fact, intimacy and tenderness are the earmarks of the symphony as a whole, with all four movements ending peacefully. The lovely second movement, opening with wind instruments only, had a rustic feel, and the several clarinet solos were rendered beautifully by the principal, William R. Hudgins. Here the second theme was contributed by the strings, injecting a note of unease, but only temporarily, as the sunny opening theme won out.

In the affecting lament of the third movement, the cellos lent their silken tone to the main theme which recurred in quite a few other instrumental combinations. The horn is especially present in this movement in both supporting and starring roles, and the work of principal James Sommerville was a special pleasure. Shortly before the end of the movement the strings expanded the main theme outward in a climax—one of the rare times in the two inner movements when the dynamic rose above piano. Then the music subsided and once again finished quietly. The final movement began with a soft and mysterious murmur in the low strings and bassoon which came across with clarity notwithstanding. The “uneasy” string theme of the second movement briefly reappeared before an abrupt jump to fortissimo and the development of the previously mysterious opening theme. The cellos and horns combined to contribute a rich, bronze-hued second theme. Later, over turbulent triplets, the movement built to a stirring climax with the reentry of trumpets and timpani not heard since the first movement. Finally, the music gradually calmed down again as melodic material from the first and second movements reappeared. On the final chord, the strings dropped out altogether and we were left in the luminescence of a serene and perfectly tuned F major chord from the winds. The release might have been a magical moment of transcendent peace but for an eager beaver in the audience who couldn’t wait to start clapping. C’est la vie. This is a particularly difficult symphony to bring off, and a standing ovation with numerous curtain calls for the maestro attested to the BSO’s success. We anticipate with pleasure Herr Masur’s return to Symphony Hall in February.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach and currently sings in the choir of Trinity Church.

The program began with Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in E-flat minor. Hill took an unapologetically romantic approach; the effect was tender and elegiac. His moderate use of the pedal allowed him to take a tempo in the prelude that would be nearly impossible to sustain on the harpsichord. He also made subtle use of rubato, chord-rolls of varying speeds, and crescendi and diminuendi. He achieved clarity of polyphony in the fugue not merely by tastefully highlighting each occurrence of the subject, but also through use of different articulations simultaneously—particularly fitting when the subject appears in canon in two different voices. This may not have been a purist’s playing of Bach, but for all others its beauty and emotional traction were undeniable.

Hill played the first three Messiaen pieces as a group, the better to illustrate the huge contrast between the composer’s earliest style and that of almost thirty years later. The first piece, taken from his Préludes (1929), was La Colombe (The Dove). Though the influence of Debussy is still perceptible, at age twenty Messiaen had already discovered his “modes of limited transposition” which formed the basis of his distinctive musical language. This prelude is constructed in a rondo form whose returning theme is a gentle fluttering figure that Hill played with delicacy. The contrast with the second piece was indeed stark. La Chouette hulotte (The Tawny Owl), taken from the thirteen-movement Catalogue d’oiseaux (Bird Catalogue) of 1958, depicts a nocturnal bird of prey. The illustration of darkness and fear was clearly etched with powerfully deep bass notes and screeches in the treble. Individual notes had their own dynamics, and as in the Bach, Hill’s wondrously nuanced touch distinguished different textures happening simultaneously. The third of the group (also from the Catalogue) was L’Alouette Lulu (The Woodlark), a considerably gentler nocturnal bird which converses with the nightingale. Hill’s voicing of chords was something quite special, and he tastefully contrasted the fluid descending song of the woodlark with the insistent tremolos of the nightingale.

The first half concluded with another selection from Catalogue, Le Merle bleu (The Blue Rock Thrush), which inhabits crevices of the cliffs overhanging the Mediterranean near Banyuls. Messiaen and Hill painted a vivid picture of waves crashing below and swifts singing above before the title bird was heard. Its song is vaguely pentatonic (with much added), leading the pianist to describe it as “a Balinese gamelan gone mad.” Another section, fast and brilliant, reproduced the song of the Thecla crested lark. Between sections was a recurring passage of serene, utterly beautiful chords which could have come from no other composer’s pen. Hill skillfully delineated a wider range of moods (i.e. species of birds) and settings here than in the previous pieces. The concluding, sweetly minor chord felt almost nostalgic.

After intermission came Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in C-sharp minor, full of yearning and well sustained. The fugue is notable for its very brief four-note subject and almost static opening. Once again, Hill’s mastery of different articulations within a polyphonic texture paid dividends. The next Messiaen piece, Cantéyodjayâ, was particularly interesting for several reasons. First, it was written at Tanglewood, where Serge Koussevitzky had invited him to teach in the summer of 1949. Second, it is unique among Messiaen’s piano works in having nothing to do with either birds or religious faith. Third, the composer did not like it; it wasn’t premiered until 1953 and published some time thereafter. One of Messiaen’s most experimental works, it is given a rondo-like structure by a recurring passage. Messiaen’s stated goal was to apply serialism not only to pitches but also rhythms and dynamics. It was much to Hill’s credit that he was able to make such a cerebral piece into an engaging musical experience. Certainly it didn’t hurt that Cantéyodjayâ featured likely the most obvious pyrotechnics on the program—especially its brilliant chordal sections. Incidentally, though the title resembles Hindi (and the piece is largely based on Hindu rhythms), according to Hill, it is a “nonsense word” made up by the composer.

The next “bird piece” was not taken from Catalogue d’oiseaux. Messiaen’s wife, the marvelous pianist Yvonne Loriod, mentioned to him in the early 1980s that in his decades of writing ornithologically inspired pieces he had never portrayed the simple robin. Le Rouge-gorge (The Robin) that Hill played is actually the first of three pieces of that title in the Petites Esquisses d’oiseaux (Little Bird Sketches) of 1985. Hill described the piece as resembling the product of Olivier Messiaen’s and Anton Webern’s joining minds. It is indeed a brief and concentrated piece with lovely chords alternating with flurries and cascading motifs, all rendered colorfully by Hill.

We returned to Catalogue for the final piece. Le Traquet stapazin (The Black-eared Wheatear) is a native of the same Mediterranean area as the blue rock thrush. As usual, Messiaen doesn’t limit himself to the one bird of the title but portrays a whole community of them, beginning relatively quietly at sunrise, gaining energy and variety through the day, and gradually calming down again as the sun sets over the Pyrenees. Hill’s performance was atmospheric, describing settings such as the cavernous sonorities of clefts in the cliffs and reproducing different avian “personalities” nearby and far away. Hill’s sovereign control of touch allowed the ending to trail off ever so gently in the manner of drifting off to sleep.

The audience’s vociferous approval led to two short encores. First was Toru Takemitsu’s “Rain Tree Sketch II”, written as a tribute to Messiaen soon after his death. Its opening texture was similar to Messiaen’s early works, while the latter section had the perfume of his characteristic harmonies. Hill gave it a bewitching ambience. Second was a delicious oddity: a piece Messiaen composed in the 1930s as a sight-reading test for the Paris Conservatoire. He apparently composed a great number of such tests, but all were discarded and lost but this one, which was included in an anthology of sight-reading tests by multiple composers. It has more than a whiff of George Gershwin(!), who, after all, had come to Paris in the 20s hoping to study with Maurice Ravel. Hill clearly enjoyed this luscious mixture of French and American sound-worlds, as did the audience.

In summary, Peter Hill is a pianist’s pianist, displaying multiple types of virtuosity beyond brilliant technique. His nuances of dynamics, shadings of touch, varieties of articulation, and subtleties of pedaling are rare. While one can’t help longing to hear what this pianist would make of some of the mainstream piano repertoire, until Messiaen is even somewhat regularly on most other pianists’ programs, Hill’s inspired advocacy remains vital.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach and currently sings in the choir of Trinity Church.

We began with Ludwig van Beethoven’s Leonore Overture No. 2, Op. 72a, an audible example of this composer’s compulsion to revise (there are in fact four such overtures). The performance was largely assured and musical, but there were just enough instances of faulty tuning and inexact ensemble to remind the listener that this is a student orchestra close to but not yet at professional standard. Still, there were many praiseworthy things: the atmospheric pianissimo string-playing, the numerous fine woodwind solos, the very effective offstage trumpet fanfares, and the final più allegro section that crackled with excitement leading to a thrilling conclusion.

The continual impulse to revise is a trait common to Beethoven and Mahler, perhaps the reason for placing Mahler’s Totenfeier second on the program. This 1888 preliminary version of the first movement of Mahler’s Symphony No. 2 (“Resurrection”), though separated by a five-year gap from the composing of the next two movements, differs from the final version primarily in the size of the orchestra: it calls for a considerably smaller ensemble than the published edition. Though the title, Totenfeier (“Ceremony for the Dead”; its translation was a peculiar omission from the program booklet), was removed in the subsequent revision, Mahler retained its character in one of his markings: “With a serious and ceremonial expression throughout.” Loebel and the orchestra achieved this expression even through the myriad moods in the course of a movement of over twenty minutes. In this difficult music, there was again a mixture of highly accomplished playing and less successful. Here too there were occasional instances of blurry ensemble and inaccurate intonation, and (particularly in very soft passages) the trumpets and horns had perhaps more than their share of clams. On the other hand, the balances were well judged (the program notes indicated that the inexperienced composer’s dynamic markings must be recalibrated by conductor and orchestra for important musical material to be heard); there were beautiful solos from flute, English horn, and violin; and climaxes were well-prepared and viscerally exciting although the final, fortissimo full-orchestra plunge into the abyss burst out of nowhere, just as it should. The stunned audience held their breath for some time after it, as, no doubt, Mahler intended.

Following intermission we heard three excerpts from La Damnation de Faust, Op. 24, by Hector Berlioz who, like Mahler, followed his own path as regards orchestration. And as did Tchaikovsky (whose music finished the program), Berlioz rejected the doctrine of “absolute music” and freely sought literary inspiration for his works. The “Dance of the Sylphs” depicts magical beings conjured by Mephistopheles to surround Faust and put him to sleep. At the opening, Berlioz gives us a playful dance for winds only. Especially prominent were upper woodwinds: flutes and piccolos. Even allowing for changing personnel from piece to piece, how often does one see five piccolo players and nine flutists listed on a program? An example of Berlioz’s sui generis approach to orchestration, this piece fairly often formed chords entirely within the piccolos/flutes. Being high and exposed must make it extra challenging to be in tune, but they and the other woodwinds were successful though the horns were somewhat less so. There was a particularly dazzling faster section with virtuoso wind writing and a pizzicato string accompaniment. In the “Minuet of the Will-o-the-Wisps” Mephistopheles summons more of his minions to gain the soul of the innocent Marguerite. Berlioz skillfully juxtaposes naïve serenity with sinister menace, and Loebel and the NEC Symphony were equally skillful in realizing his intentions. There was some ravishing playing from muted strings, joined by flutes and harps. The Rákóczy March (a/k/a Hungarian March) is a musical description of the majestic procession of the Hungarian army across a plain where Faust finds himself one evening. This was an interesting mixture of delicacy and virility, with clean-cut, rousing playing.

Concluding the program was the symphonic fantasia Francesca da Rimini, Op. 32 by Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. (Perhaps this had something to do with the presence of a substantial Russian-speaking contingent within the audience!) In Canto V of Inferno, Dante Alighieri portrays a historical 13th-century noblewoman whose husband discovers her adultery with his brother Paolo and kills them both. The pair are consigned to the second circle of Hell, buffeted eternally by whirlwinds for the sin of adultery. Tchaikovsky acknowledged being inspired by Gustav Doré’s painting of the lovers, and indeed both composer and painter focus particularly on the whirlwind motif. This is an orchestral showpiece par excellence, and the NEC Symphony and Loebel rose to the challenge. They maintained impressively tight ensemble even through the long sequences of descending triplets that move almost entirely on offbeats — perhaps a musical description of treacherous footing during Dante’s and Virgil’s descent into Hell. The musical descriptions were everywhere vivid: the soulful and nostalgic clarinet solo beginning the calmer central section; the satin-smooth string playing — supported by glowing horns — of the love theme (whose beauty is fully comparable, in my opinion, to that of Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet), and its apotheosis in the full brass; the touching sighs that alternate between strings and woodwinds; the thrilling build-ups to the virtuosic and violent windstorms in the opening and concluding sections; and the still-faster coda which was spine-tingling for its tight control of ensemble and dynamics. The ending was staggering: half a dozen full-orchestra iterations of an augmented-sixth chord (or something similar) with full percussion before the hopelessly final bare-octaves last chord.

In this demanding program, the players were mostly on their mettle and truly impressive in the second half. The remaining seventeen programs in “Mahler Unleashed” are of an astounding variety, e.g., the next, on October 13, encompasses music by Giovanni Gabrieli, Mahler, and Duke Ellington, among others! Our gratitude goes to David Loebel and the NEC Symphony for imaginative programming and, in particular, a real Mahler rarity.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach and currently sings in the choir of Trinity Church.

The opening song, “When Did I Fall in Love?” from Fiorello! by Jerry Bock and Sheldon Harnick, was an excellent showcase for McDonald, vocally and dramatically. Starting sweetly and simply before building up power and drama, it demonstrated how smoothly and effortlessly she knits together her plush chest register and brilliant head voice. Moreover, she gave the song—and all the excerpted songs, in fact—an emotional arc, granting them more weight than selections taken out of context would normally have.

McDonald also demonstrated a world-class gift for banter, which further endeared her to her listeners. When she didn’t find a stool onstage that she had expected to make occasional use of, she “killed time” very effectively while it was hunted for backstage. It made for an unplanned but quite natural lead-in to her next song, Jason Robert Brown’s “Stars and the Moon,”  which is very conversational and spontaneous in style. Yet there is a subtle emotional shift that takes place over the course of the song, conveyed with consummate skill by McDonald. “It Might as Well Be Spring” (Rodgers & Hammerstein’s State Fair) and “Hurry! It’s Lovely Up Here” (Burton Lane & Alan Jay Lerner’s On a Clear Day You Can See Forever) were sung without pause and made a convincing pair in McDonald’s sweet, fresh-voiced rendering.

“My Buddy,”  by Gus Kahn and Walter Donaldson, had a couple of charming stories associated with it, e.g., McDonald learned it at age 10 for the local dinner theater in Fresno, CA. The ballad from 1922 (“the oldest song I sing”), in Andy Einhorn’s lovely arrangement, opened tenderly, grew into a very substantial middle verse, then tapered off to a simple, sweet ending. “I Double Dare You” (Terry Shand & Jim Eaton) had a particularly outstanding arrangement. It began with a mere hint of mischief, but soon enough the tempo jumped ahead as the piano launched into a wonderful, slightly crazed Tin Pan Alley-style “descant.” This likely would have stolen the thunder from most singers—but not Audra McDonald. The fun she had singing it was infectious.

The number that followed, not originally planned, was done at the request of a friend in the audience. “Bill” (Kern & Hammerstein’s Showboat) is both personal tribute (McDonald once sang it at an event honoring Bill Cosby) and a meditation on the mysteries of personal attraction, with a touch of humor. In fact, the song was briefly interrupted with laughter when, after singing about a “god-like kind of men,”  McDonald gestured towards the famous Symphony Hall statuary of mythological figures.

The ambience of Irving Berlin’s “Moonshine Lullaby” (Annie Get Your Gun, a laid-back, jazzy number from Prohibition days, was enhanced by background vocals from her trio, a pleasant surprise. McDonald’s combination of exceptional intelligence and outstanding vocal technique makes Stephen Sondheim’s music a natural choice for her. Her account of “Moments in the Woods” (Into the Woods) was both fun and food for thought in the typical Sondheim manner, though it was mildly disappointing to miss some of the text due to sometimes overly casual enunciation.

Having just sung Bess for about a month, McDonald was eager to program something else by George and Ira Gershwin; “He Loves and She Loves” (Funny Face) is a song she has sung often in recent years for the cause of marriage equality. She brought to it a quiet fervor and tenderness slightly tinged with melancholy, and her trio contributed a lovely interlude. I daresay there were lumps in many throats at the end of this deeply felt song.

For Adam Guettel’s “Migratory V” McDonald accompanied herself at the piano. In this beautiful song musing on the wonders of flight, she proved herself a more than capable pianist. Both her singing and playing were velveteen. With trio back in place, McDonald’s rendition of another Bock & Harnick number, “Dear Friend” from She Loves Me, was notable for its mixture of humor and pathos, though again some text was missed thanks to some swallowed consonants.

Surely the best-known song on the program, sung with fitting breathless exhilaration, was “I Could Have Danced All Night” from Lerner & Loewe’s My Fair Lady. McDonald got a laugh from the audience by initially saying, “If you feel inspired to sing along . . . don’t.” But in the event, she couldn’t resist coaxing some audience participation on the familiar refrain, even urging us to the high note at the end.

After speaking with deep affection of her daughter, McDonald performed two lullabies: “Whose Little Angry Man Are You?” from Raisin (Judd Woldin & Robert Brittan’s musical version of A Raisin in the Sun) and “Baby Mine” from Dumbo by Frank Churchill and Oliver Wallace. Each was infused with maternal warmth and (it virtually goes without saying) flawless vocalism. The Scottsboro Boys was “mistreated by Broadway” last season: treating the subject of racial injustice, Kander & Ebb daringly created a mock-minstrel show which predictably was protested by activists oblivious to the concept of irony, and its run was consequently foreshortened. In “Go Back Home” a black man, falsely imprisoned for the rape of a white woman, aches for the day he will receive the delayed justice of release. McDonald gave a powerful performance, full of hope and yearning.

Lightening the mood, there followed a genuine patter song, “Can’t Stop Talking ” by Frank Loesser, which began quite fast and only got faster. In conveying ecstasy, McDonald’s virtuoso diction was hair-raising. Here consonants were crisp, and even at the wildest tempo every word was intelligible.

Adam Gwon’s “I’ll Be Here” (Ordinary Days) gave a brief history of a young New York couple: their meeting, courtship, and marriage — cut short when the husband becomes one of the victims of 9/11. Gwon’s lovely, direct setting, coupled with McDonald’s sincere delivery, enabled the song to avoid potential melodrama. Also, the composer/lyricist approaches the disaster obliquely: the husband, knowing he is going to die, leaves a final loving phone message for his wife, giving her his blessing to move on and remarry. One imagines it would be easy enough to create something exploitative or maudlin based on the tragedy of 9/11, but this song decidedly avoids that and gives us something deeply moving. Adam Gwon is a name to watch for.

The final two planned pieces, though not directly connected with the Gwon, seemed to be logical continuations of its thematic essence. “Make Someone Happy” (Jule Styne/Betty Comden/Adolph Green’s Do Re Mi) showed the great range for which McDonald is famous.

From tenderly intimate to operatically passionate, she was always convincing and compelling. “Ain’t It de Truth” (a Harold Arlen/Yip Harburg song cut from the film Cabin in the Sky) was a toe-tapping gospel tune, starting lively, then getting still quicker and modulating upwards. McDonald and her band had Symphony Hall rocking and singing along. They were rewarded with an immediate standing ovation which led to a single encore, a setting by Steve Marzullo of a famous text by James Baldwin: “Some Days”. This is another song the singer favors at rallies for marriage equality due to its core message: “Love is the only answer.” It also had a gospel feel, beginning modestly and working up to a powerful climax.

Audra McDonald has set the bar high for the rest of the Celebrity Series. I’m sure many would join me in hoping that her appearance in Boston will be a cherished annual (at least) event.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. Currently, he sings in the choir of Trinity Church.

The Wound-Dresser, a setting for baritone and orchestra by John Adams (b. 1947) of an excerpt from Walt Whitman’s poem of that name was an apt choice for this sesquicentennial year of the beginning of the American Civil War. As so often with Whitman, the poem is in the first person; in the words of the composer, it is “the most intimate, most graphic and most profoundly affecting evocation of the act of nursing the sick and the dying that I know of.” The baritone was James Demler, and the conductor was William Lumpkin, both BU faculty members. Demler gave a dramatic account of Whitman’s stalwart caring for the maimed and dying, and Lumpkin obtained equally descriptive playing from the orchestra, notably the opening highly atmospheric playing in the strings’ high register. Only at one climax did the ensemble, perhaps caught up in the powerful text, cover up the voice, at the words “I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you.” Demler’s excellent diction was a blessing, particularly as this poem contains unusual subject matter, e.g., bullet wounds, a bloody stump, and putrid gangrene. This last had an orchestral accompaniment vividly illustrating the viewer’s nausea. There were also some fine solos from concertmaster Tudor Dornescu, hornist Adam Krings, and flutist Stephanie Burke. Perhaps most moving of all were the final two lines — partly for the simplicity of Adams’ setting and partly for the directness of Demler’s delivery — “Many a soldier’s loving arms about this neck have crossed and rested, Many a soldier’s kiss dwells on these bearded lips.” The audience was held spellbound at the conclusion.

After intermission the concert concluded with Franz Schubert’s Symphony No. 4 in c minor, the “Tragic.” As with Antonin Dvorak, Schubert’s earlier symphonies are much less frequently heard than the final ones. His first symphony in the minor mode, written in 1816 when the composer was nineteen, the Fourth marks a new level of his maturity. Not unlike the Mozart overture heard earlier, the symphony’s first movement has a slow introduction fraught with chromatic harmonies and sighing figures, which proceeds into a fast main section lighter in mood. The performance was characterized by propulsive playing, crisp ensemble, and good balances. I was gratified that Lumpkin and his band observed the exposition repeat.

The slow movement, in the unconventional submediant key of A-flat major, had a lovely, folklike melody played affectingly, though intonation was an occasional problem in both strings and woodwinds. There was handsome solo work from oboist Rui Liu. The third movement minuet had the character of a scherzo (Italian, “joke”) as Schubert enjoyed using deliberately deceptive rhythms. Lumpkin and the orchestra gave a witty rendition, including a contrasting trio with the feel of a brisk but stylish waltz.

The finale featured a precursor to the relentless moto perpetuo string figures of the Ninth Symphony finale. One is tempted to wonder if Schubert had a grudge against violinists! The strings, indeed the whole orchestra, were enjoyably light-footed, thought it couldn’t have been easy. Only once — in a brief slower passage — did the ensemble become blurry, but it was quickly back on track. The movement built to a resounding and triumphant ending in C major, capping off a program of interesting and diverse repertoire and generally fine performances.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach, and choir member at Trinity Church, Copley Square and in the Back Bay Chorale.

The Bach Prelude and Fugue in C Major, BWV 545, made a noble and bracing opening with its cascading pedal figure. It was perhaps an unconventional choice to begin the fugue at full plenum, but the celebrated C. B. Fisk organ’s exceptionally clear reed voicing and Beauséjour’s articulation maintained clarity throughout. The chorale prelude Liebster Jesu, wir sind hier (Dearest Jesu, We Are Here), BWV 731 was elegant and expressive with handsome ornamentation.

Johann Pachelbel, an exponent of the South German organ school a generation older than J. S. Bach, was represented by two greatly contrasted settings of the chorale Vom Himmel hoch, da komm’ ich her (From High Heaven, I Come Here). The first was witty with the chorale tune played on an 8’ trumpet stop in its lower range and a dancing accompaniment above. The second setting placed the chorale in the pedal with a majestic plenum over it. Beauséjour showed us that Pachelbel had more range and variety than one might suspect from the ubiquitous Canon alone.

Continuing still further back in time were the variations on Mein junges Leben hat ein End (My Young Life Has an End) by Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck who, though Dutch, is generally considered the founder of the North German organ school. Beauséjour took the opportunity to display many of the beautiful colors of the Fisk organ. He began with foundations, followed with a flute stop, and eventually played a variation on the Cremona alone (also known as Krummhorn or Cromorne). He finished on a soothing foundation (possibly the 8’ Violin Diapason) that seemed most fitting in view of the piece’s title. Beauséjour’s fingerwork was faultlessly crisp and clean.

Following were two more Bach pieces, the setting of Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme (Sleepers, Awake, a Voice Is Calling), BWV 645, and the famous (or infamous, if you prefer) Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, BWV 565. The chorale prelude is the well-known setting from the Schübler collection, a transcription by the composer of one of his cantata movements. Beauséjour’s performance contrasted the legato chorale tune with strongly grouped accompaniment notes in a brisk tempo for an effective “reveille.” The Toccata was also strongly characterized by dramatic groupings of notes. Also, Beauséjour’s arpeggiated diminished seventh chord in triplets demonstrated that this passage is still more dizzying when executed exactly in tempo without any rubato. The fugue was vigorous and largely forte tofortissimo though the organist did take advantage of the repetitions in the major section to provide echoes. In the slower chords between cadenzas, Beauséjour “kept the pot boiling” (and often intensified dissonances) by inserting trills in inner voices, an ingenious way of creating motion within (relative) stasis.

The second half began with the Biblical Sonata No. 1 — The Combat Between David and Goliath — by Johann Kuhnau, Bach’s predecessor as Cantor at Leipzig’s Thomaskirche. This accomplished piece of program music was enhanced by the use of a narrator, Old West Organ Society’s Executive Director Margaret Angelini. The opening “boasting of Goliath” was depicted by swaggering dotted rhythms played on ponderous trumpet stops; this was followed by the “trembling of the Israelites” and their prayer to God: in fact, a setting of the chorale Aus tiefer Not schrei ich zu dir (From Deep Need I Cry to You). There were numerous examples of musical description, e.g., alternation of foundation chorus with reed chorus to depict combat, and canonic writing (i.e., one voice chasing another) showing the Israelites pursuing the Philistines. It was all quite vivid in Beauséjour’s hands.

Georg Böhm’s chorale prelude on Vater unser im Himmelreich (Our Father who art in Heaven) is a setting both florid and meditative in the North German style. The combination of a beautiful registration and Beauséjour’s expressive phrasing and ornamentation gave us a moving performance.

As a demonstration of Bach’s cosmopolitanism, incorporating influences of the German organ schools North and South, the master’s Passacaglia in C minor was an ideal choice. One can detect aspects of the North German ostinato style (Buxtehude’s own Passacaglia in D Minor, a notable example) as well as the South German chaconne (such as those of Pachelbel). Beauséjour again broke with convention and began the piece at a robust forte, with principal chorus and mixtures, only quieting down when the pedal part dropped out for several variations. The last and most attenuated of these was especially lovely. With the pedals’ reentry, the forte returned, reinforced with trumpet stop. Except for one minor loss of place near its beginning, Beauséjour proceeded inexorably forward with the concluding double fugue. As Bach maintains the countersubject throughout, there are actually three fugue subjects almost always heard simultaneously, which Beauséjour’s painstaking articulation kept ever clear and distinct through all the various permutations of voices. The coda was appropriately earthshaking.

This performance was a textbook example of an artfully planned program, designed to appeal to the “casual” concertgoer as well as the connoisseur or fellow organist; it was played with refinement and robustness. I look forward to being part of a larger audience at Beauséjour’s next Boston organ recital.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach, and choir member at Trinity Church, Copley Square and in the Back Bay Chorale.

The concert got underway with a rousing performance of the national anthem which only raised my hackles near the end when the combined choruses collectively took a breath between “star-spangled” and “banner.” The fact that this has become nearly standard practice makes it no less revolting. With 85 singers, stagger-breathing ought to be a cinch for those youthful singers who may not yet have developed sufficient breath control to sing the whole phrase in one breath. The preparing conductors need to give as much thought to the words as to the notes.

Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings followed. Early on there was some tentative playing and very approximate ensemble — no doubt due to the scant rehearsal time for a concert in early September — but things soon fell into place. Passion was held in check for some time, but when it came, Zander and his players didn’t stint. The desired catharsis was fully achieved.

The orchestra and the 14-year-old Japanese-American violinist Yuki Beppu then favored us with the famous “Meditation” from Jules Massenet’s Thaïs. It was fitting that Beppu’s dress was quasi-seraphic, because her playing was like a celestial vision. Additionally, Zander obtained a luscious sound from the orchestra. At the reprise of the main theme, the choruses added some gorgeous ambience by softly doubling the orchestral accompaniment in vocalise. This performance was pure rapture.

The main event welcomed to the stage three soloists: soprano Kirsten Scott, mezzo-soprano Cristina Bakhoum, and tenor Michael Kuhn. It should be noted that some Islamic sects discourage setting prayers from the Quran to music, and Amato consulted imams in an effort to solve this problem. In fact, he ultimately found multiple solutions, one of which began the piece: a recording of an imam chanting, soon joined by the lower orchestral instruments. When the recording finished, the soloists, each in succession, began the “Canticle of Creatures,” eventually joined by the choruses. This was an interesting Italian text with references to “Brother Sun,” “Sister Moon,” “Brothers Wind and Air,” “Sister Water,” “Brother Fire,” “Mother Earth,” and “Sister Death” Although a translation was provided, alignment problems regrettably left the last nine lines of Italian untranslated, and the source of the text was not indicated. The soloists and choruses sang expressively and with good diction, though at times I found myself wishing the music were a little more melodically memorable.

The second section, Sura 1: Al-Fatiha set the best-known Islamic prayer, “Bismillaah ar-Rahman ar-Raheem” (In the name of God, the infinitely Compassionate and Merciful). Interestingly, the music I found most memorable, generally speaking, was that which set Islamic and Jewish texts. I felt the Semitic material was more colorful and interesting, particularly in its creative use of orchestral colors. (How much credit for this goes to Amato and how much to his orchestrator, Simone Scazzocchio, I cannot say.) The Sura 1, for instance, began with a variety of percussion and wind instruments and had the character of a middle-Eastern dance. Again, a recording of an imam was used before the prayer was actually sung by soloists and choruses. The choruses demonstrated impressive dynamic control with sudden crescendos as well as subito pianos. All three soloists displayed very attractive lyric (i.e., lighter) voices that unfortunately got buried fairly regularly from this movement on. Either the orchestral accompaniment needs to be lightened considerably, or soloists of greater vocal heft need to be selected. The full orchestra (this one had 83 players) should perhaps be reserved for accompanying the full chorus.

The following movement, the Jewish prayer Adon Olam, also began with percussion, this time including tambourine, soon joined by an undulating figure in the orchestra. Though it was often difficult to follow the printed text, it would be churlish to quibble about choral diction in languages as unfamiliar as Arabic and Hebrew. The choruses and soloists all sang with commitment and conviction, and the spirit, if not always the letter, of the texts came through. After a tender ending, the Adon Olam led without pause into the Christian prayer, Praise the LORD, which began in Latin, later switching to the English translation. This was a joyous hymn of praise, commanding all creation to render praise: everything from sea monsters to mountains to cedars and fruit trees. This had some delicious syncopations and enjoyable tunes, though even the massed choruses were momentarily swamped by the surging orchestra.

Praise the LORD overlapped with the next section, O my father. The lighter orchestration here allowed the soloists to be heard distinctly. They were expressive and musical, though Kuhn had an unfortunate tendency to fracture the legato by aspirating vowels on melismas. There was an especially affecting passage when the orchestra went silent and the soloists were accompanied solely by the choruses.

The last three movements — Elohai (My God, the soul You placed within me is pure), Sura 2: Al-Baqara (Oh! Men adore your God), and Mio Ospite (My Guest) — were performed without pause. The emphasis was on choral/orchestral textures to which the soloists’ voices were sometimes added. If it was again challenging to discern where one language ended and the next began, the engagement and determination of all singers and players to make a statement about the unity of the three faiths was never in doubt. The end of the final prayer was interestingly unorthodox: “How deceiving to think of you faraway: illusionary space to my autonomy and yours: you can only conceal yourself in the present, you can only be in conflict, you cannot run from the destiny of your beloved image.” At the conclusion there was a standing ovation, and the composer, orchestrator, and conductors of the choruses came forward to take their well-earned bows.

The concert concluded with an excerpt from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony including the first choral statement of the Ode to Joy. Those of us a bit older than the orchestra and chorus members will remember a similar occasion in 1989 when Leonard Bernstein conducted the entire Ninth Symphony in Berlin at the time the Berlin Wall fell, reuniting East and West; he too used the Ode to Joy (or Freedom — he replaced “Freude” with “Freiheit”) as a hymn celebrating the universal brotherhood of humankind. An insert to our printed programs gave the German text in phonetic equivalents so that the audience could join in. For me, this was an ideal commemoration using the power of music: commencing somberly and in reverence, observing the common ground of three often conflicting faiths, and going out with joyous optimism and belief that these conflicts can one day be overcome. Kudos to Benjamin Zander and all his performers who did an extraordinary job with limited rehearsal time. And thanks to Silvio Amato and Simone Scazzocchio for undertaking this unusual challenge that, we trust, will be positively received by Muslims, Jews, and Christians alike.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach, and choir member at Trinity Church, Copley Square and in the Back Bay Chorale.

The program opened with two early solo piano pieces of Debussy. From the first note, Eleanor Perrone created the dreamy mood of Nocturne with lush tone and “wet” pedaling in her exquisite performance. In the highly contrasted Danse, originally titled “Tarantelle styrienne,” which derives much of its interest from switching between 3/4 and 6/8 time, some occasional “wet” pedaling was less helpful, but the technical command was assured and the dance feeling ever present.

D’Anna Fortunato, mezzo-soprano, and Brian Moll, piano, provided three of Debussy’s songs, each from a different period of his career. Green (1886) had both innocence and sensuality. Pour ce que Plaisance est morte (Because Pleasure is Dead, 1904) was altogether darker and harmonically richer, Debussy’s exploitation of the singer’s lowest register underscoring the mournful mood. Noël des enfants qui n’ont plus de maisons (Christmas of the Homeless Children, 1915), the only instance of Debussy’s writing his own text, is a passionate denunciation of the suffering of children in World War I. Fortunato and Moll were appropriately vehement but also tender in the brief moments of repose.

Late Debussy is generally more mystical and austere than the rest of his output, but his last completed work, Violin Sonata in G Minor, from 1917, played by guest artist Bayla Keyes, violin, and Robert Merfeld, piano, has voluptuous touches, recalling his earlier style. Both musicians were sensitive to this, Keyes in particular incorporating a number of elegant portamenti in her playing. It was not an ideally equal partnership, however; Merfeld was occasionally reticent to the point of harmonies not fully emerging or being overbalanced by the violin. Additionally, there were several chordal passages in the second and third movements in which he was less than accurate.

After intermission, a bevy of singers and pianists came out; all sat at the rear of the stage except whichever pair was performing, presumably to let the program proceed efficiently. And in the interest of efficiency, I will write about performances one duo at a time though the actual order had them alternating.

Carol Mastrodomenico, soprano, and Libor Dudas, piano, opened with Franz Schubert’s Der Jüngling an der Quelle (The Youth by the Spring). Dudas supplied a pellucid spring, and Mastrodomenico sang with sweet purity. Only the sighs to the youth’s beloved, Luise, seemed a bit extroverted. Later the duo returned with Hugo Wolf’s In dem Schatten meiner Locken (In the Shadow of My Tresses), giving it a delicious, coquettish charm. And finally, they performed Enrique Granados’s Gracia mia (My Graceful One), a paean to the beauty of the poet’s beloved, with high spirits and infectious enjoyment. Dudas once or twice was enthusiastic enough momentarily to cover Mastrodomenico, but the duo carried the audience off with their élan.

Baritone Bradford Gleim collaborated first with Robert Merfeld in two Hugo Wolf songs, Die Nacht (The Night) and Abschied (Farewell). Considering that his whole life long, Wolf loathed the music of Brahms, the first song had a surprisingly Brahmsian flavor. Perhaps it was Wolf’s unconscious response to Josef von Eichendorff’s poem, the gist of which is that night is like a quiet sea, able to blur boundaries between opposing elements and tangle them up. Gleim and Merfeld maintained an expressive ebb and flow that illustrated the text: “Even if my heart and mouth now are closed . . . still, at the bottom of my heart there remains the gentle throbbing of those waves.” Abschied, a hilariously merciless caricature of carping critics, has a certain irony, given that Wolf found employment in Vienna for several years as a (frequently acerbic) critic himself. This performance was a qualified success; there were a couple ill-coordinated entrances, and the piano part’s alternating octaves and chords at the climax proved troublesome. However, the pair’s comic storytelling skills ultimately made the difference. (The supplied translations incorrectly attributed the text to Eichendorff; the poem is by Eduard Mörike.)

Gleim made one more appearance, with Brian Moll at the piano, to perform Ralph Vaughan Williams’s “Youth and Love” from the Songs of Travel. It was sung and played handsomely, with the piano’s steady pulse illustrating the determination of a young man to see the world but not be sidetracked by worldly pleasures.

Mezzo-soprano Sophie Michaux (a current Master’s candidate) and 2011 alumna Sarah Troxler, piano, gave us the three Métamorphoses of Francis Poulenc, setting the quirky poetry of his friend Louise de Vilmorin. Whereas the first text, Reine des mouettes (Queen of the Seagulls) is merely peculiar, the last, Paganini, delights in blending entirely random words and concepts — at Poulenc’s breakneck prestissimo. Michaux and Troxler were crisp and clear, making it sound easy. The central song, the more often performed C’est ainsi que tu es (That’s How You Are), received an affectionate, seductive rendition.

Three Emily Dickinson settings were performed by Karyl Ryczek, soprano, the first two with Wayman Chin and the last with Brian Moll. Ryczek and Chin infused “The soul selects her own society” as set by Robert Baksa — a 1966 composition that must have been considered very retro for its embrace of tonality and melody — with warmth and tenderness. “The Shining Place,” as set by Lee Hoiby (who died earlier this year) opens atypically extrovertedly (numerous exclamation points), the cascading piano part depicting the poet’s ecstasy, and closes more inwardly with Dickinson’s idea of Paradise: “the fame/That They—pronounce my name—”. Ryczek and Chin seemed in perfect sympathy with poet and composer. In the final setting, If, Longy’s Vartan Aghababian used Dickinson’s famous poem “If I can stop one heart from breaking”, to create a gem of beautiful simplicity. Ryczek’s and Moll’s delivery was accordingly direct, simple, and touching.

Soprano Jayne West, with Robert Merfeld, performed three strongly contrasted songs over the program’s second half. West’s singing was largely sunny, the darker undercurrent only gradually emerging, particularly in the harmonies of her last phrase, in Robert Schumann’s Wehmut (Nostalgia) from Liederkreis, Op. 39, a song superficially happy but masking unsuspected depths of anguish. Merfeld continued this in the piano postlude, relishing the expressive chords. Later the duo returned with Gabriel Fauré’s La lune blanche luit dans les bois (The White Moon Shines Through the Trees) from La bonne chanson. They created an exquisite atmosphere of quiet but intense bliss as summed up in the final phrase: “It is the hour of ecstasy.” Later, West and Merfeld concluded the evening with musical theater: Kurt Weill’s “My Ship” from Lady in the Dark, text by Ira Gershwin: the ship carries every kind of treasure, but unless it also carries the narrator’s own true love, it’s meaningless. The song received a warm rendering with a gentle swing evoking a ship on the sea.

At first glance this program might have appeared random, even disorganized, but placed in the context of its title (The Changing Muse) and of SeptemberFest 2011’s theme — transformations — its mosaic made sense. It displayed transformations of style over one composer’s career; it pointed up changes to the German lied from Schubert to Schumann to Wolf as well as the evolution of the Frenchmélodie from Fauré to Poulenc; and it highlighted the diverse perspectives of different composers on a single poet. In addition to sensitive performances, Longy’s ongoing SeptemberFest gives us food for thought.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach, and choir member at Trinity Church, Copley Square and in the Back Bay Chorale.

The program was a mix of pieces with saxophone and organ, solo organ works, and orchestral transcriptions utilizing both instruments. The four transcriptions of the first half were done by Massaglia expressly for this recital. The evening commenced with Invocatio Dona nobis pacem, a work originally for violin and organ, by Heinz Wunderlich (b. 1919). It was quite convincing, however, with a soprano saxophone in place of the violin. The first two sections alternated the titular plea for peace with violent, fortissimo sections, and broken organ chords contrasted with the saxophone’s long-breathed cantilena. The concluding section featured a hymn-like tune with diatonic harmonies, implying perhaps that peace had been achieved. Massaglia and Stabio gave a committed, satisfying performance.

The first transcription was the famous Dance of the Hours from Amilcare Ponchielli’s opera, La Gioconda. Stabio and Massaglia took one of the most often parodied works in classical music and played it nearly “straight,” giving it just a touch of jocundity. No dancing hippopotami in tutus here! Admittedly, the reverberant room and the organ’s somewhat slow response slightly undermined the humor by blurring the fluttering 16^th-note flourishes, but Massaglia’s transcription was artful and worked well.

The mood shifted with the Romance from Sergei Prokofiev’s Lieutenant Kijé Suite. This attractively melancholy piece was well served by the saxophone’s timbre. Massaglia made particularly imaginative use of the organ’s various reed colors at 16-foot and 8-foot pitch, and Stabio’s smooth, rather dark sound seemed like an additional one. There was an odd lapse of stage deportment at the conclusion: Stabio immediately knelt down to put away her instrument without acknowledging the applause; this put Massaglia in a very awkward position, since he didn’t want to bow without his co-performer. One hopes in the future the duo will coordinate their bowing consistently.

The one solo organ work of the first half was Maurice Duruflé’s Prélude from the Suite, Op. 5. A musical “dark night of the soul” in the caliginous key of E-flat minor, it calls for careful choice of stops (registration), to preserve the balance in several quasi-polyphonic passages and also to make a smooth and inexorable crescendo and decrescendo. Massaglia’s playing and registration were exemplary. Especially praiseworthy was his expressive rubato in the doleful final section: a deeply moving interpretation.

Rounding off the first half were two more orchestral transcriptions, both drawn from ballet suites. The Serenata from Igor Stravinsky’s Pulcinella Suite, though supposedly based on early eighteenth-century Italian works, is actually quite reminiscent of the slow movement of J.S. Bach’s first Trio Sonata for organ. The two works share a graceful sicilienne rhythm and a dropping octave in the main tune. Stabio expressively contrasted a gently projecting timbre with a more soft-grained one, though she had an occasional tendency to go sharp. The “Arabian Coffee Dance” from Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite received a seductively sensuous treatment from the duo. I did prefer, after a time, to direct my gaze away from the stage, as Stabio has a tendency to “conduct” with her body; one hopes this is a holdover from student days and that she will soon leave it behind. As always, Massaglia made imaginative use of the organ’s colors in his transcription.

Jehan Alain’s Trois Mouvements opened the second half. This year marks the centenary of this highly gifted composer and organist who was tragically killed at age twenty-nine early in World War II. The “three movements” were assigned to flute and piano but have proved to be adaptable to other combinations. The first movement was evocative, with the saxophone on the lovely melody. The second proved to be less effective, the hall’s generous reverberation again blurring repeated organ notes and other details at a faster tempo; but at least the saxophone had the advantage of tongued articulation. The final movement, obliged to be a bit slower than the specified allegro vivace, didn’t quite have its desired friskiness, though the surprise staccato chord at the end caused some chuckles to ripple through the hall.

The one solo organ work after intermission was Saga No. 1 by Jean Guillou (b. 1930). Guillou has been organist at St. Eustache, Paris since 1963 and is equally renowned as pianist and pedagogue. The atonal Saga had an improvisational feel, with contrasted colors of flutes and reeds alternating and combining contrapuntally. It was another good choice to highlight Massaglia’s coloristic prowess.

The first movement of Astor Piazzolla’s Concierto del Ángel was a sharp contrast. Introducción al Ángel (Introduction to the Angel) had a lush, leisurely opening on the organ string stops. When the saxophone entered, it was so well integrated into the organ’s texture as to be nearly imperceptible. There was a faster, brighter middle section for the organ alone that flirted with jazz. The haunting concluding section featured repetitions of the main themes on both instruments ever more distantly.

Last on the program was the Suite No. 1 by Hans-André Stamm (b. 1958), a German composer and organist. There was a pronounced French harmonic influence in the Romanze; in fact, with the saxophone’s sustained melody over undulating chords in the organ, it bore some resemblance to the first of Alain’s three movements, though the organ added countermelodies here. The final Allegro non troppo had a sense of fun, as the saxophone repeated playful melodies over syncopated chords in the organ. The standing ovation accorded at the conclusion led to a single encore, the tender and lovely His Father’s Son by English composer and saxophonist James Rae.

This was certainly not the typical Methuen organ recital. One hopes the audience was edified by hearing the subtler glories of this organ, most notably, its great range of orchestral colors and ability to collaborate. We are indebted to Luca Massaglia and Isabella Stabio for their skillful demonstration.

 Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach, accompanist of the Boston Choral Ensemble, and choir member at Trinity Church, Copley Square and in the Back Bay Chorale.

Johann Sebastian Bach’s Preludio from the Violin Partita, BWV 1006 (perhaps better known as the Sinfonia to Cantata 29), was played with near-manic energy except for the enormous rubati inserted at each transition to a new section and major harmonic shifts. The Baroque stilus phantasticus became a reductio ad absurdum.

The Gypsy Sonata in A Minor, using music of Georg Philipp Telemann as a starting point, showed additional components of Red Priest’s style. The gypsy element naturally led to any amount of sliding pitches from Greenberg’s violin, but amazingly, the other instruments found ways to follow suit — even the harpsichord via glissando. There was also some physical comedy when the string players enjoyed a duet while Adams and Wright walked around the back of the stage admiring the view. Entertaining though it was, it was hardly Telemann.

Giuseppe Tartini’s Senti lo mare (Hear the Sea) was a fortuitous choice of repertoire, given that the back of the stage is a huge window affording the audience a panoramic view of Rockport Harbor. This performance was rather closer to the original with some sound effects added. It opened with harpsichord musings as Adams held a tenor recorder horizontally and blew tonelessly into it for wind effects. There followed a lovely, melancholy trio played by tenor recorder, cello, and violin, rejoined by the harpsichord’s lute stop. Finally, we returned to the opening texture with the strings adding extreme high harmonics, perhaps evoking the cries of sea birds.

The only entirely solo piece on the program was a harpsichord arrangement of George Frideric Handel’s aria Vo’ far guerra as taken down by William Babell from one of Handel’s own improvisations (the only arrangement not by Red Priest). This immediately reminded me of Beethoven’s Rage Over a Lost Penny due to its fury, obsessive repetition and seeming determination to explore every keyboard figuration the composer could imagine: arpeggiated and block chords, scales, Alberti bass, chords hammered in alternation between the hands, octaves, etc. Wright comically acknowledged the excessive repetition when, in the midst of his tour de force, he crossed his legs and got comfy, turned toward the audience, lifted his eyebrows, and shrugged. When it finally ended with a great downward glissando to a crashing tone cluster, one marveled that the harpsichord wasn’t a smoking pile of rubble.

We returned to Bach with the “Arioso” from the F Minor Harpsichord Concerto and “Badinerie” from the Orchestral Suite No. 2. The “Arioso” was reasonably close to the score, though Adams added an interesting pizzicato effect on the bass recorder, playing pitches very staccato and closing the valves percussively. In “Badinerie” Adams displayed dazzling virtuosity on the sopranino recorder, playing the chattery piece faster than I have ever heard it but with impeccable control.

The first half closed with the Concerto in G Major (The Sea Storm) by Antonio Vivaldi, the original “Red Priest.” Adams got a hearty laugh from the audience with one of his remarks: “Our interpretation may not be exactly what Vivaldi intended; on the other hand, he’s dead.” Nonetheless, the outer movements were descriptive of waves and storm winds. The middle movement got the gimmicks: a bit of the Sailor’s Hornpipe worked in, tonelessly high harmonics on the violin, and Wright reaching into the harpsichord to strum the strings, à la George Crumb.

After intermission came Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in C Minor from The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book II. The highlight of this performance was the astounding feat of Adams’s playing harmony on two recorders simultaneously for much of the Prelude before settling for one. The fugue was “played straight” and handsomely.

François Couperin’s three pieces, Tromba Marina, Plaint, and Devil’s Hornpipe, were East’s opportunity to shine. She was joined by Greenberg in the first which was in fact a merry jig. The second, characterized by tonic and dominant drones, she did indeed play plaintively. In the final piece, East was rejoined by Wright for a rendering with panache and a modicum of mischief.

The next piece, Bach on G, or “We won’t let her go till you give us back our boat,” was the inspiration for the program’s title: “an innocent violin sonata is hijacked by marauding pirates!” In this case, though, the pirates were from Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, and accomplished fiddlers. Most of the first movement, Allegro, was pure Bach, violin and harpsichord, but when Greenberg switched from the right side of the stage to left, the “pirates” took over. (The remaining movements were: Poppy Leaf Hornpipe, The Princess Royal Hornpipes I and II, and Miss Charters’ Reel.) From there on it was almost entirely fiddle music, dances so infectious East and Adams couldn’t resist joining in, with Adams successively playing tenor, bass, and sopranino recorders (the last doing a fine penny whistle imitation). Somehow, Bach had more or less convincingly transitioned into a Celtic céilidh.

The Adagio of Tomaso Albinoni may be an example of piracy of another sort: the attribution of a work by a lesser-known composer to a famous one. Remo Giazotto (1910-1998) claimed to have reconstructed this piece from a charred fragment of six measures found after World War II but could never produce said fragment. Red Priest’s rendering of the well-known work alternated between the straight-and-narrow and a seductive Argentinean tango version of it. The conclusion turned jazzy with Adams doing an upward recorder slide à la the Rhapsody in Blue clarinet (how on earth?!) and Wright supplying a bluesy final chord.

Jean-Marie Leclair’s Tambourin was another display piece for sopranino recorder alternating with strings. There was some fun foot-stomping to evoke a drum, and a perfect-fifth drone in the manner of Jean-Philippe Rameau’s harpsichord piece of the same name.

The culmination of the program was Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, surely the most famous organ work ever composed. Initially one missed the gravitas of the organ’s sixteen-foot pedal stops, but the arrangement was such a tour de force for the whole ensemble that one adjusted to it soon enough. This magnificent example of stilus phantasticus apparently obviated the need for gimmicks. The brilliant passagework, first played by pairs of instruments then all four in unison, was free but executed with amazingly tight ensemble. The fugue began sedately but accelerated to a very brisk tempo but otherwise took few liberties with the source. After another showy cadenza, the piece ended with an inserted Picardy third–mustn’t end a light-hearted concert in the minor!

A standing ovation demanded an encore which turned out to be another Cape Breton dance number with all the players participating and, except for Wright, moving around the stage while playing. East managed the erect cello-playing with ease and for a moment stole the show by holding and playing her instrument like an overgrown guitar. All in all, it was an entertaining evening. Whether it will win new listeners to the original versions of these pieces, only time will tell.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach, accompanist of the Boston Choral Ensemble, and choir member at Trinity Church, Copley Square and in the Back Bay Chorale.

Jesse Blumberg as Poliferno pretending to be Mercury and Amanda Forsythe as Niobe (André Costantini photo)

The 2011 Boston Early Music Festival (BEMF) got off to a rousing start on June 12 with a lavish production of Agostino Steffani’s 1688 opera, Niobe, Regina di Tebe at the Cutler Majestic Theatre. An impressive number of individual and institutional sponsors have been lined up for every aspect of this undertaking, and its resulting exceptional quality is visible and audible throughout. Paul O’Dette and Stephen Stubbs are music directors as well as playing theorbo and baroque guitar, and Gilbert Blin is the stage director. An outstanding international cast is joined by the unsurpassed BEMF Orchestra and the fine PALS Children’s Chorus, and the superb singing and playing is complemented by the terpsichorean pleasures offered by the BEMF Dance Ensemble.

Steffani is ripe for rediscovery: most of his operas survive in manuscript only and haven’t been performed for over three centuries. Nonetheless, he was a cosmopolitan musician, highly regarded in his day, having studied and/or worked in Italy, France, and, for the largest part of his career, in Germany. Something of a triple threat, he was prominent as composer, diplomat, and Roman Catholic clergyman. The music of Niobe is wonderfully rich and varied; at times it recalls earlier compatriots, particularly Monteverdi, and at others employs daringly advanced harmony comparable to passages later composed by J.S. Bach. Only Niobe’s dance music has not survived though it has been established that it was composed by Frenchman Melchior d’Ardespin. Choreographers Caroline Copeland and Carlos Fittante have done an commendable job of re-creating both music and choreography, using other music by d’Ardespin and Steffani, for the numerous pure dance sequences.

Philippe Jaroussky as Anfione with PALS choristers (André Costantini photo)

The piece opens with a fairly standard-issue French overture, brimming with dotted rhythms, until the fast section begins and drums and antiphonal trumpets are suddenly, thrillingly added to the mix. When the curtain was raised on Thebes’s King Anfione and his court, the set and costumes drew immediate applause. We are quickly introduced to several of the cast. Anfione seems an enlightened ruler, about to lay down his power and let Niobe reign in his stead. The soon-to-be queen’s nurse, Nerea, suspects what Anfione does not: that the regent Clearte has amorous feelings for his charge and even that she might return them. As Anfione, Philippe Jaroussky, belonging to the relatively rare vocal category of sopranist countertenor, cuts a regal figure and sings with sovereign command (in every sense). Soprano Amanda Forsythe is equally impressive as Niobe. As Clearte, tenor Kevin D. Skelton sings handsomely and makes clear the initial struggle within the character between his desires and his duty. Countertenor José Lemos as Nerea takes full advantage of being the central comic figure of the opera but also loses no opportunity for vocal display.

The next scene introduces Theban maiden Manto, menaced by a bear in the woods, and Alban Prince Tiberino, out hunting and fortunately on hand to save her by capturing and taming the bear. Soon after the rescue Manto’s father arrives, the prophet and priest Tiresia whom Jove has given clairvoyance to compensate for his blindness. As the maiden, soprano Yulia van Doren makes an ideal ingénue, strikingly beautiful and singing with a lovely light touch, excellent agility, and a luscious sound, but also with a generous variety of colors when desired. Tenor Colin Balzer makes a fine counterpart for her and sings elegantly and ardently while baritone Charles Robert Stephens has convincing gravitas as the experienced father-figure, and authority as well as outrage as soothsayer/priest.

Finally, we meet Poliferno, Prince of Attica and magician, and Creonte, son of the King of Thessaly but under the control of Poliferno. They arrive from above in the first notable piece of stage machinery: a dragon with glowing red eye, amidst clouds. The craven conjurer has nursed a grudge against Anfione for a long time and plans to use Creonte to exact his revenge. Enjoying the juicy villain role, baritone Jesse Blumberg sings a vigorous, martial aria urging Creonte (and his soldiers) to attack Anfione and take Niobe for his own. Somewhat later, countertenor Matthew White gets his own stirring vengeance aria as Creonte, though he is little more than a mouthpiece for Poliferno at this point. In sharp contrast of mood is his delectable love duet with Niobe, both under the magician’s spell.

Niobe and Anfione, the two leading characters, have the greatest range of music — contemplative, amorous, brilliant, and (at the end) poignant. At the opening of Act III, the bewitched Niobe and Creonte continue to believe they are divine as well as in love with each other. Indeed, Niobe sings an exquisite aria to Creonte, beautifully collaborating with theorbo, baroque guitar, and baroque harp. Later, after learning the truth but still wanting to believe in her divinity, she goes off the deep end for a time in a combination mad scene/vengeance aria; Forsythe gave a spine-tingling account. Although through most of the opera, Niobe is quite unsympathetic, due to her enormous hubris, she is horribly punished near the end by the killings of all her children. Her grief is so great she cannot even weep but instead gradually turns to stone during her final aria. With poignant singing Forsythe managed to make us feel a glimmer of sympathy for her at her end.

Choreographers Caroline Copeland and Carlos Fittante (André Costantini photo)

Anfione is celebrated for his musical abilities so it is only fitting that his music be especially wonderful. In Act I he sings praises of the music of the spheres. Jaroussky here demonstrated marvelous control in his expressive shading of vibrato and dynamics. (There was also some delightful, apt choreography here: children carrying globes of various sizes in carefully planned orbits around the monarch.) In Act II, Tiresia clues Anfione in to what is really going on, reawakening his fighting spirit. At this point the infuriated king launches into the most spectacular aria in the opera, declaring vengeance on Poliferno and Creonte. The brilliance of Jaroussky’s coloratura was astounding and the virtuosity of the accompanying continuo equally so. Much later when he realizes that his children have all been killed due to Niobe’s pride, Anfione stabs himself and dies over the course of his final lament aria. This has not only the commonplace descending chromatic bass line but an answering ascending line, tightening the emotional screws in the singer’s moving performance.

When Creonte takes the Theban throne, he tries to heal wounds by punishing Poliferno, blessing the union of Tiberino and Manto, and forgiving Nerea for her earlier foolish machinations. He sings a final florid aria in praise of destiny, and the opera ends with a celebratory dance in which virtually all the orchestra’s instruments, standard and exotic, get a final “bow.”

A final word of praise is due all the technical crew whose meticulous planning made this immense production go off without a hitch. The multi-layered sets worked well and had an authentic period feel while making efficient use of the somewhat limited stage and wings space. The multiple flying apparatuses (dragon and clouds) convincingly conveyed characters “from sky to earth” and certainly heightened the drama! I fervently hope that this triumph will lead to other Steffani opera productions even though they will be hard put to match the standard set by this one. Recommended wholeheartedly!

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. He is a freelance organist, collaborative pianist and vocal coach, accompanist of the Boston Choral Ensemble, and choir member at Trinity Church, Copley Square and in the Back Bay Chorale.

Jonah Ellsworth accepts ovation.

A fortunate Boston audience was treated to the latest piece of musical sorcery from New England Conservatory’s Youth Philharmonic Orchestra and Music Director Benjamin Zander on Friday, June 3, at Jordan Hall, in the maiden voyage of a program they will perform in coming weeks in the Czech Republic, Slovakia, and ultimately at the much-venerated Musikverein in Vienna. Though only consisting of two pieces, the program was exceptionally long and demanding, made still longer by some ill-coordinated stage preparation that prevented the audience from entering the hall till less than ten minutes before scheduled performance time. One hopes the European stage crews will be rather more efficient.

The evening opened with Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s Variations on a Rococo Theme, Op. 33, for cello and orchestra, with soloist Jonah Ellsworth, 17, winner of the YPO’s Concerto Competition as well as its principal cellist. As befits its name, the piece’s theme combines elements of the Baroque and Classical periods — from a Romantic composer’s perspective. Ellsworth’s playing was refined and elegant, gracefully incorporating touches of rubato. He delivered the work’s many virtuosic passages with plenty of bravura — notably in Variation II, the multiple cadenzas of Variation V, and the final Variation VII — but his performance was just as memorable for its beauty of expression. The lyricism and arched phrases of Variations III and VI were akin to a gifted opera singer spinning out an exquisite bel canto aria. His tone is not especially large, and there were at least two places in the exciting finale when the orchestra covered him briefly. In all other respects, however, the YPO and Ben Zander were sensitive collaborators, expressive and colorful throughout. Particularly memorable were Variation III, whose lovely detached woodwind chords and string pizzicatos recall Swan Lake, and the incisively brilliant final Variation VII.

The second “half” (roughly quadruple the time of the first) was Gustav Mahler’s Symphony No. 9 in D Major. Before the performance, Zander noted some pertinent facts: as far as he knew, no other youth (high school) orchestra had yet attempted the Mahler Ninth; 2011 marks the 100th anniversary of Mahler’s death; and the tour will encompass places where Mahler was born, lived, and worked. The music director then spoke with erudition and passion about the symphony itself, particularly noting Mahler’s unique approach to polyphony: the paradox of making an ensemble by highlighting the independence of each individual part.

The immense opening slow movement vividly embodied the salient points of Zander’s remarks. The various orchestral sections kept rhythmic ensemble but maintained their individuality in all other respects, eliminating the hierarchy of melody and accompaniment. The YPO’s flexibility of tempo and dynamics was something to marvel at — though no less than what Mahler demands. In keeping with the composer’s view that a symphony must embrace everything, there were constant contrasts: the harmonious, beautiful, and anodyne versus the dissonant, tense, and hostile. The motives representing these two opposing types of music were combined, “resolved in … a glimpse of bliss” at the end of the movement, illustrating the dilemma that hope and love are inevitably accompanied by despair.

Zander noted that the “victories” achieved at the end of the first movement are too unstable to be trusted, and the two middle movements are intended to “test” them. The second movement, marked “Somewhat clumsily and very roughly,” is a palsied parody of a dance, the Austrian Ländler. I couldn’t help recalling Edvard Grieg’s remark about a similarly deliberately club-footed dance from his Peer Gynt music: “It stinks so of cow-dung … insularity … and self-sufficiency!” The players relished this opportunity for grim humor (no doubt originally inspired by Zander) and gave us another engaging paradox: a horde of clumsy dancers who coordinate nearly perfectly. The movement gathers a sinister energy for a time — an interesting precursor to Maurice Ravel’s La Valse — before returning limply to the opening theme. The humorously grotesque final phrase is played, many octaves apart, on piccolo and contra-bassoon, “a sparrow partnering an elephant” in Zander’s apt description.

The third movement is a scherzo only if one is willing to abandon the literal meaning of the word, for there is no joking here. It is largely given over to hostility and conflict except for an oasis of tender comfort in the middle which will be developed considerably further in the final movement. Mahler dedicated this movement with bitter irony to “my brothers in Apollo [the god of music],” the critics who continually questioned his ability to write counterpoint. Though titled Rondo Burleske, it is a fugue as well, demonstrating an impressive command of polyphonic writing. The YPO compellingly depicted strife large and small, from declarations of war down to malicious susurrations. Near the end there was a dazzling accelerando hurtling into a white-hot coda whose sudden ending left much of the audience gasping.

The final movement, after a unison introduction, gives us some gorgeous string writing much like the Adagietto of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony, and Zander got a rich, burnished sound from his players. This was but the first of many reappearances of the “tender theme” from the previous movement. A later one was especially delectable as the theme was passed among some fine solo players: violin, bassoon, French horn, and English horn. (Somehow there was no credit for the English horn on the player list; this should be corrected for the tour.) Again, there were many contrasts, e.g., passages of ardent yearning and other ghostly ones marked “without expression.” Towards the conclusion there is a final magnificent climax, but it is gradually attenuated into a whispered, otherworldly ending. After eighty-plus minutes of hugely demanding music, one must salute these teenage players for maintaining focused concentration in this utterly rapt, spare coda. After the last note had died away and Zander’s hands had descended there was over half a minute of silence; no one wanted to shatter the atmosphere so magically created by these superb performers.

For once, Elgar’s Nimrod (of the Enigma Variations) was an anticlimax, Mahler’s epic journey having left most of us emotionally wrung out. Still, tradition must be served, and it was beautifully played, a moving expression of love dedicated to the graduating YPO members and, one suspects, from the players to their devoted music director. Bravi, tutti and bon voyage!

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. Currently, he sings in the choir of Trinity Church and accompanies the Boston Choral Ensemble under Miguel Felipe.

I quickly enough got accustomed to frequent changes of personnel at the podium, the piano, and on the risers, as all the performers numbered above were represented. All the choruses sang from memory, allowing them to have continuous eye-contact with their conductors, which paid huge musical dividends. All the conductors (the four directors as well as teaching fellows) clearly had the gift of communication and inspiration, keeping kids across the wide age-range focused and engaged. The accompanists–pianists, drummers and strummers–were all assured and flexible.

The program opened auspiciously with the Choral Union and Concert Choir together rendering The Storm is Passing Over. The paired choruses displayed a well-blended, sweet timbre and excellent intonation. The phrases were handsomely sculpted, there was an enjoyable variety of articulation, and the dynamics were well-controlled and expressive. As would happen a number of times through the afternoon, the piece developed into a gospel song with joyful stomp-clapping.

The Choral Union then separately offered Windy Nights, a flowing tune with piano that created a wistful mood, and Ojos Azules (Blue Eyes), an evocative a cappella Andean folksong, sung with feeling but not ideal balance: the quasi-bass line was apparently sung by a single “baritenor” who had to support almost a dozen upper voices and was consequently often inaudible. He was not helped by the pitch going slightly low, one of the very rare such occurrences on this program.

The Concert Choir followed with We Will, an energetic number with bongo and piano, evoking an African liberation song and done with fitting enthusiasm. In contrast, Eleanor Daley’s a cappella setting of Rise Up, My Love (of the Song of Solomon) had a dreamy beauty which came across vividly. The set closed with This is the Day, which actually opened with two fine soloists, sisters Olayeni and Oladunni Oladipo. Their voices were surprisingly contrasted when separate but combined wonderfully. Eventually, of course, the choir joined in, gospel-style, and all the singers had fun with the constant jazzy syncopations.

We heard next from the youngest BCC members, the Central, West End House, Villa Victoria, and Dorchester House Training Choirs. The first two choirs gave a confident account of South African folksong Siyahamba (We are Marching in the Light of God), in Zulu and English. The other two choirs presented the Angolan folksong O Desayo with the unusual accompaniment of piano, electric guitar, and woodblocks, a fun piece for audience and performers. Then all four training choirs combined to sing Linda Spevacek-Avery’s clever arrangement of Ching A Ring Chaw that works in the spiritual Great Gittin’ Up Mornin’. The former tune was made widely popular by Aaron Copland’s highly robust arrangement so it was surprising that this version opens meditatively; however, soon enough it turns vigorous and combines powerfully with the spiritual. The gospel stomp-clapping was entertainingly done left to right, one choir at a time, across the risers.

The combined Intermediate Choirs offered three numbers. The Jewish folksong Ma Navu’s imitative writing made me appreciate the singers’ good balance; mostly, though, it was their infectious sense of fun that stayed in the mind. How Can I Keep From Singing?, in a lovely arrangement by Andy Beck, was eloquent and perfectly tuned. And Rollo A. Dilworth’s Everlasting Melody was a well-named toe-tapper with perhaps a little Stevie Wonder influence. Again, the young musicians clearly were having a fine time which transferred to the audience.

All the ensembles we had heard to this point then combined (too many for the stage, some stood among us in the aisles) to perform A Place In This World by BCC’s composer in residence, Bill Banfield. An enjoyable and lyrical excerpt from a larger children’s opera, it has a number of tempo changes, but Artistic Director Anthony Trecek-King impressively held together the widely scattered singers.

The Young Men’s Ensemble features boys 10-18 “with changing and changed voices.” One would think obtaining a cohesive sound from such a group would be next to impossible, but they managed it in a ravishing performance of Despertar (Waking Up), a Venezuelan folksong describing the beauty of the rolling Venezuelan plains at dawn. Full of colorful harmonies and appoggiaturas, Antonio Estevez’s arrangement is designed to be milked and, under Trecek-King, these gifted vocalists didn’t disappoint.

The Premier Choir, the most advanced chorus, sang another Venezuelan folksong, La Paloma (The Dove), arranged by Cristian Grases. It was accompanied by a cuatro, a South American instrument visually similar to a ukulele. The song had an infectious rhythm that made many of us, I’m sure, want to get up and dance. It would have been easy for young singers to get carried away by the fun of it, but their sharp ensemble and intonation were exemplary, their discipline a means to an end.

The Premier Choir united with the Young Men’s Ensemble for two pieces. In Randall Thompson’s famous Alleluia a slowish tempo was perhaps intended to let us bask in the lovely sonority, but it also somewhat highlighted the rather top-heavy balance (the piece really does call for resonant low basses well past their teens). The Alleluia is harmonically highly adventuresome (i.e., challenging), and there was one momentary but serious mishap midpiece that was so quickly recovered from, I’m still wondering how they did it! It ultimately worked up to a thrilling climax and beautifully serene ending. After Trecek-King shared touching reminiscences about each of the 16 graduating seniors, the two ensembles presented Salseo, in a fascinating arrangement by Oscar Galian. Starting out with vocal percussion effects and some Sprechstimme, it segues into some very sophisticated jazz vocals: Take 6 meets Manhattan Transfer. If the Alleluia is challenging, Salseo is super-challenging, featuring still more complicated harmonies but also jazzy syncopations. It was done brilliantly in all respects.

The program ended with all the ensembles combined (yes, 350-odd singers), arrayed around the theater, singing Ben Allaway’s Sahayta, a piece calling for peace and love in Arabic, English, Filipino, Hebrew, Hindi, Sanskrit, Spanish, Swahili and other African tribal languages. Repetitive for the sake of audience participation, it gradually built up a powerful head of steam. The standing ovation for all the performers was a foregone conclusion.

My only previous encounter with the Boston Children’s Chorus was in a setting where I knew they were not heard to full advantage (BMInt review here), but I was still unprepared for the magnificence I experienced on Sunday. It was easy to see why they are performing on national television and abroad, as well as receiving prestigious national awards. They are fine artistic ambassadors for Boston and undoubtedly an inspiration to musical youth everywhere they go.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. Currently, he sings in the choir of Trinity Church and accompanies the Boston Choral Ensemble under Miguel Felipe.

We are plunged straight into the story with virtually no prelude or overture. The scene revealed to us is the Gardner Museum on March 18, 1990 in predawn obscurity, moments after the largest art heist in history. As several sizable empty frames tell their painful tale, they also act as portals through which the shade of Isabella (soprano Barbara Kilduff) is drawn back to her violated museum. Just behind her is the composite character “Boston Matron” (mezzo-soprano Janna Baty showing her comic flair alongside attractive vocalism) who even in the afterlife continues to voice the opprobrium of proper Boston society for Mrs. Gardner’s outrageous New York customs. Mrs. Jack may have wholeheartedly adopted Boston in the form of its symphony orchestra and Red Sox baseball team, but she saw no reason to conform to Boston Brahmins’s outmoded social strictures, especially those applying to women. In her reaction to the Matron we get a quick précis of her philosophy of life: “What can’t be helped must be endured” (an interesting pre-echo of Brokeback Mountain’s “If you can’t fix it, you gotta stand it”); “I go my own way and cannot accept limits”; and “Life’s great adventures are not just for men.”

Hard on the heels of the exasperated Matron we are introduced to Jack Gardner (bass-baritone Paul Guttry) as he woos Isabella. If the character of Jack in the opera seems somewhat pallid beside his flamboyant New York bride, it was likely superficially true of the original people as well. But it would be well to bear in mind that for late nineteenth-century Boston, Mr. Gardner was quite the free-thinker as well: it is clear in this scene that he finds Isabella’s resistance to conformity one of her most attractive traits. The courtship was subtly and touchingly sung by Guttry and Kilduff. This scene, however, is the most vulnerable to the charge of “telescoping.” Brief moments later we enjoy the comedy of Isabella in the same breath informing her now-husband of her pregnancy and her intention to attend a boxing match. The couple dance a sweet pas de deux for perhaps a minute, and then the audience must figure out that some years have elapsed, the Gardners have become parents, and have subsequently suffered the loss of their child. Even assuming the audience has read the supplied synopsis, this is dramatically jarring as well as a bit confusing. Considering the reverberations this tragedy had through Isabella’s life, it seems the perfect opportunity to “pause and reflect” in an extended aria.

Two years after this trauma, Jack takes Isabella to Europe where they visit art galleries and the Paris salon of renowned couturier Charles Worth (baritone Paul Soper). Still oppressed by grief, Isabella is initially indifferent to the clothes she is shown, but gradually recognizes a new opportunity to provoke the Boston Brahmins and is remarkably revitalized. Soper’s calculated flamboyance in portraying Worth credibly reignites Mrs. Jack’s sense of mischief as she orders several new sets of clothes with plunging décolletages and raised hemlines (exposed ankles — shocking!). Worth was supported by two young assistants, capably sung by Jacquelyn Viña and Salvatore Atti.

Back home in Boston, though, Isabella feels in need of a larger life-purpose than merely raising bluenoses’s blood pressure. With Jack’s personal and financial support, she hits on her passion for art as the solution, deciding to build a world-class collection and give it to her adopted city. The Gardners make another trip to Europe to begin the process, meeting with an American art dealer who lives in Italy, Bernard Berenson (tenor Ray Bauwens). Like his client, Berenson is a larger-than-life character, and Bauwens reveled in the musical and dramatic opportunities afforded him. Berenson is entirely frank with the Gardners about the shady techniques he employs to get great works of art out of Italy, in an arietta delectably reminiscent of Gilbert & Sullivan: “A soupçon of skullduggery backed by a hint of thuggery.”

Isabella’s plan is to renovate the Gardner’s home to properly display the burgeoning collection, though Jack suggests building a separate museum, modeled on Venetian palazzi she had adored. When Jack suddenly dies, his wife undergoes the second great crisis of her life, and she pours out her sorrow in the most beautiful, plangent music of the opera, vividly expressed by Kilduff’s singing in duet with the solo clarinet. Again, the only shortcoming in my view was that I wanted a more extended aria. Mrs. Jack’s new purpose (arguably rather too quickly conceived for credibility) is to honor her husband’s memory by building the museum (“When have I ever said ‘can’t’?”).

For the opening of the museum, we see Isabella in the striking outfit (kudos to Costume Designer Gail Astrid Buckley) immortalized by John Singer Sargent: the black dress with the wasp waist, daringly low décolletage, and strands of pearls around her neck and hips. Even the Boston Matron turns up and, though she finds the museum “ostentatious”, has to admit it brings positive attention to Boston and is “well done.” She even presents Mrs. Gardner with a nosegay and shakes her hand. Will wonders never cease? At the heartwarming conclusion, Isabella steps in front of the famous “halo” backdrop used by Sargent and is transported through time back to 1990, when the opera began, and she expresses optimism that her missing “children” will one day be returned. It is a compliment to the creators and performers of A Place of Beauty when I express my desire to hear expansions of the existing material, ideally with the same performers and crew.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. Currently, he sings in the choir of Trinity Church and accompanies the Boston Choral Ensemble under Miguel Felipe.

The prologue laid the groundwork for the four succeeding entrées. Hebe, goddess of youth, bemoans the luring away of young men from the delights of love by Bellone, goddess of battle, and her promises of martial glory. Amanda Forsythe made a lovely, pure-toned Hebe beguiling her audience of youths, portrayed by four of the dancers. A delicious highlight of her music is a passage scored for musette (hurdy-gurdy) and piccolos. But Hebe’s tender music is cut short by timpani and trumpet, heralding the arrival of Bellone, baritone (!) Sumner Thompson. Yet L’Amour, soprano Nathalie Paulin, has the last laugh. After Bellone has shown the dancers the proper way to hold a gun, L’Amour, designating them honorary Cupids, demonstrates how to shoot love arrows and sends them off to exotic locales (the chorus helpfully brandishing different flags for each) depicted in the
succeeding entrées. Paulin’s rich tone complemented Forsythe’s admirably: the sensual, experienced lover versus the youthful ingénue.

The first act, or story, in Turkey, involves mismatched pairs. In a plot worthy of Gilbert & Sullivan, the pasha Osman pines for Emilie (Paulin), shipwrecked and sold into slavery. However, Emilie loves Valère, also lost at sea, and denies Osman her favors. The pasha (baritone Nathaniel Watson) hopes to persuade Emilie, but failing this, he callously urges her to accept the loss of her lover and move on — to himself. Paulin then gave a thrilling account of Emilie’s “storm aria,” comparing love and loss to a tempest, complete with wind machine and umbrellas held by the chorus. The sea (the dancers) then hurls Valère (tenor Aaron Sheehan) onto shore. They couple are joyfully reunited, and when Valère and Osman recognize each other, the pasha realizes that their roles had once been reversed: Valère setting the prisoner Osman free. In Watson’s moving performance the pasha’s nobility emerges as he sorrowfully releases Emilie to Valè re and sends them back to their native land with gifts. The entrée concludes with joyful choruses and dancing.

Peru is the next setting for a tale of forbidden love between native Inca princess Phani (Forsythe) and Spanish conquistador Don Carlos (tenor Daniel Auchincloss). Unfortunately, the Inca High Priest Huascar (Thompson) is also in love with Phani and outraged that she loves an oppressor. This has the widest emotional gamut of all five acts, heightened by the dancers. Phani has a very beautiful aria with a rather kinky text: “Come, god of marriage, tie your knots, place me in chains,” accompanied at one point only by solo flute (the highly expressive Christopher Krueger) and first violins playing as one. Forsythe was equally exquisite and tender. The High Priest, increasingly unhinged with rage, threatens to invoke the Sun god to make the nearby volcano erupt and annihilate everyone. Even as it strangely and ominously throbs, Phani remains defiant and adamantine in her love for Don Carlos. Ultimately, Huascar sings a brilliant aria — Thompson is very impressive here — making good on his threat, but is thwarted when Don Carlos escapes with Phani. The High Priest, à la Don Giovanni, indeed causes an eruption, spectacular in music and stagecraft, sheds some clothing, and perishes under the lava.

Comedy is the main thrust of the third entrée, set in Persia. Prince Tacmas, engaged to Fatima, is enamored of his aide Ali’s slave, Zaïre, who secretly returns his love, while Ali yearns for Fatima. At the Festival of Flowers, Tacmas (Auchincloss) eavesdrops in hideous drag on Zaïre (Paulin) to learn whom she loves; meanwhile, Fatima (Forsythe) disguises herself as a man, spying on her would-be beau, Ali. There is a nearly tragic misunderstanding among the four before disguises are dropped and true love wins out. The reconfigured couples gave a beautiful performance of the quartet, “Cupid hides his most ardent desires and amiable traits in [flowers].” The concluding comic moment is Fatima’s final aria, “Unfaithful butterfly, renounce your fickleness.” Here four dancers lay on their backs holding up roses in each hand and foot; Forsythe dangled a prop butterfly over them all, collecting all sixteen roses while singing her appropriately fluttery aria with impressive agility.

The concluding act unfolds in Colonial North America near French and Spanish settlements. The chorus elicited many chuckles by waving Old Glory. We again have colonizers, Spaniard Don Alvar (Watson) and Frenchman Damon (Sheehan), in love with a native, Zima (Paulin), but this time she reserves her passion for a fellow native, Adario (Thompson). She tries to teach the foreigners the virtues of “guileless” native love, but they misunderstand. Sheehan displayed some brilliant coloratura in his responding aria about games. Of course, Zima’s message is none too focused, rejecting Don Alvar as too passionate and Damon as too indifferent; she seems to enjoy playing the one off the other. When Zima ultimately runs to Adario in front of the others, Damon urges Don Alvar to cool his jets. With singers and dancers in headbands like flower children, all are reconciled by passing around the peace pipe (joint?), and the piece ends with a great chaconne for orchestra.

One must praise Pearlman’s masterful direction for the nearly flawless choral and instrumental intonation and ensemble as well as the characteristic notes inégales and stylish French ornamentation. For tackling a piece more often discussed than performed, we commend Boston Baroque for sparing no detail.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. Currently, he sings in the choir of Trinity Church and accompanies the Boston Choral Ensemble under Miguel Felipe.

The tiny orchestra prelude displayed the musical language used throughout the work: entirely tonal but peppered with spiky incidental dissonances. The lead characters, Tom Rakewell and Anne Trulove, made their apt entrance processing down the church’s center aisle. Fresh of face and voice, tenor Charles Blandy and soprano Kristen Watson fit their dramatis personae to a T. Their exuberant praise of love in springtime rang true. Bass Paul Guttry, as Trulove, made a contrasting character of greater experience, the voice of moderation, but his devotion to his daughter Anne was plain to see. Our first inkling of Tom’s possibly problematic ambition comes when he declines Trulove’s offer of arranged employment, preferring to live by his wits. Blandy gave us exuberance of a different kind in his aria “Since it is not by merit we rise or fall”, a kind that didn’t explicitly include Anne.

The next character on the scene is Nick Shadow, portrayed by baritone David Kravitz, telling of Tom’s inheritance of a fortune from a “forgotten uncle.” Kravitz skillfully embodied the sophistication of the city in speech, manner, and attire, unlike the homespun Tom and the Truloves. Robust and suave by turns, he counsels Tom to go to London to settle the inheritance, Tom barely hesitates before seizing the opportunity, and, as Nick notes, “the progress of a rake begins.”

The opera becomes increasingly colorful as we watch Tom’s (mis)adventures in the big city, visiting “Mother Goose’s Brothel,” whose whores and “roaring boys” were enthusiastically voiced by the Spectrum Singers, disciplined and boisterous simultaneously. Deborah Rentz-Moore made a delightfully smarmy Mother Goose, pulling rank on her underlings in order to take Tom “under her wing.”

By autumn, Anne is consumed with worry, having heard nothing from Tom. Her famous aria is a test of any soprano, not least for its length: two recitatives alternating with a cavatina and cabaletta. Watson was moving and musical, thoroughly convincing in her progression from worry and sorrow to renewed devotion and determination to help Tom. The only reservation this reviewer had was that in the dramatic final section (“I go to him”) Watson’s voice in the lower register was a shade too light to carry over the orchestra in a handful of places, despite Turner’s care in keeping them as soft as possible. Fortunately, they were only isolated instances.

Act II introduces the comic character of Baba the Turk, the bearded lady Tom is induced to marry by Nick Shadow’s used-car-salesmanship and warped logic: humans are miserable because they are enslaved to either hedonism on one hand or prudish conscience on the other. What better way to attain freedom than to ignore both extremes and marry something hideous (“brave warriors . . . have swooned after a mere glimpse of her”)? Mezzo-soprano Mary Westbrook-Geha stole the show for a time with Baba’s vexation at the arrival of Tom‘s “ancient flame,” her incessant chattering about her collection of tchotchkes, and her nagging jag (mockingly using a theme from Anne’s earlier cavatina) when she realizes Tom’s heart belongs to Anne, not herself.

Nick Shadow, in Kravitz’s nuanced portrayal, continues to reveal more of his real self. He ostensibly shows Tom a way to redeem himself in Anne’s eyes, and Tom, still blind to Nick’s real purposes, leaps on it. Soon enough, though, Nick has turned events to his plans, Tom is ruined, and goes into hiding. Consequently, all the contents of Tom’s London house are put on the auction block, whereupon our final comic character arrives: Sellem, the auctioneer. It would be virtually impossible to be over the top with this character, and tenor Frank Kelley indeed played him like a demented charades player–but with vocalizations of all sorts. The chorus gets to join in the fun as bidders on Baba’s various pieces of kitsch. When Baba sees this, there is a delectable showdown between her and Sellem. But Anne’s unexpected reappearance has surprising results when Baba admits defeat and even reaches out to Anne. Ultimately, Baba and Sellem, now sympathetic characters, both urge Anne to find Tom soon in order to save him.

If the denouement requires a degree of suspension of disbelief, it is due to the plot (which is nevertheless more plausible than those of some operas), not the fine acting and singing of Kravitz, Blandy, and Watson. To cite one example, the nonplussed expression on Nick’s face when Anne appears and swears her love for Tom, is perfect, quickly morphing into fury at being thwarted, partly by his own delay in claiming Tom’s soul. The one bit of retaliation he can enact is to destroy Tom’s sanity.

In the insane asylum, Bedlam, Tom is convinced he is Adonis and awaits the visit of Venus in the person of Anne. Devoted to the last, she does appear, movingly humoring him by calling him Adonis and praying that his “frantic spirit” will soon be free. The opera proper ends with his peaceful demise and the chorus touchingly singing, “Mourn for Adonis, ever young.”

However, this is, as noted above, a morality tale, and thus in an epilogue the principals reappear to give their individual morals, remaining in character — some thoughtful, others funny. At the very end all unite to offer the axiom: “For idle hands and hearts and minds, the Devil finds a work to do.” There surely were no idle hands in the preparation of this excellent performance. I look forward to future explorations of unusual repertoire by Emmanuel Music.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. Currently, he sings in the choir of Trinity Church and accompanies the Boston Choral Ensemble under Miguel Felipe.

Poppea, soprano Kathleen Kim and Agrippina, soprano Caroline Worra (Jeffrey Dunn photo)

Having gambled (successfully, I am glad to say) on the little-known but masterful opera The Emperor of Atlantis by Nazi death camp victim Viktor Ullmann, which it paired with a premiere, Boston Lyric Opera chose to follow this program with a piece of proven success with audiences and critics in the U.S. for more than a quarter-century: George Frideric Handel’s Agrippina. BLO’s production has previously been seen at Glimmerglass Opera and New York City Opera, and if one could quibble at a number of Lillian Groag’s stage direction choices, there was no denying this presentation’s emphatic popularity with the audience at Sunday’s matinee performance. But for the performers to carry out the sometimes excessively busy staging, they first had to have solid mastery of the music’s very considerable challenges, and this cast and orchestra, uniformly strong musically and dramatically, succeeded admirably. The 24-year-old Handel was surely enjoying displaying his compositional talents and wrote an unusual number of arias to show off his instrumentalists’ and singers’ virtuosity and dramatic skills.

The opera’s plot concerns the machinations of the amoral Agrippina to have her son (from an earlier marriage) Nero succeed her husband Claudius as emperor of Rome. Vincenzo Cardinal Grimani contributed a fine libretto which made little attempt to stay close to the actual Roman events as his purpose was to attack, under the guise of comedy, the papal court of his and Handel’s time. This device goes back at least as far as Aristophanes but, in this reviewer’s opinion, does not offer the stage director unlimited license to insert physical comedy, even slapstick, at every turn. Much of this choreography was well conceived and executed smoothly, but not a little seemed over the top and at times threatened to distract one from the music and text. It is a credit to the singers and orchestra, stylishly and spiritedly conducted by Gary Thor Wedow, that such instances were fleeting.

Agrippina (Soprano Caroline Worra) punishes Pallante, baritone David McFerrin and Narcis, countertenor José Álvarez (Jeffrey Dunn photo)

In the title role, soprano Caroline Worra made the most of her juicy part, offering scintillating coloratura and a three-dimensional characterization of the emperor’s wife, by turns arrogant, scheming, and tormented by misgivings. As the emperor Claudius (Claudio), bass-baritone Christian Van Horn had a commanding voice and presence and made a delicious contrast between imperial majesty and comically thwarted Casanova. Soprano Kathleen Kim divertingly portrayed Poppea, the flighty object of the emperor’s affections as well as Otho’s and Nero’s, fusing the superficial brilliance of the music Handel gives her with her physical perkiness (in four-inch stilettos, no less!) to create the most multifariously comic character. Otho (Ottone), the sole character with unquestioned integrity, was convincingly rendered vocally and dramatically by countertenor Anthony Roth Costanzo, whether supplying the one truly tragic aria or later being straight man to Poppea’s gently comic antics. As Nero, David Trudgen’s forceful countertenor was used with skill and style in the service of broad comedy and vocal pyrotechnics; Agrippina’s son is amusingly portrayed more as teenager trying to be bad-ass (guzzling martinis and snorting cocaine) than the deranged monster he would later become as emperor.

As the two sycophantic freedmen, Pallante and Narciso, baritone David McFerrin and countertenor José Alvarez sang expressively even while making good use of their moments in the comic spotlight. As the more politically astute servant, Lesbo, David M. Cushing displayed an attractively resonant bass that made one wish Handel had written just a bit more for his character. The deft supernumeraries, who wore masks somewhat like commedia dell’ arte characters and put in more rehearsal hours than for any other in BLO history, ensured the smooth changing of the rather elaborate sets; these characters in black and were mute dramatic foils to the cast or interacted silently with them.

One was at times perplexed by the incongruity between sets and costumes, the former being evocative of ancient Roman architecture and the latter decidedly 20th-century American fashion, with nary a toga to be seen. The props as well were thoroughly contemporary, from the revolver that passes through three characters’ hands at various times to Nero’s martini mixer and glass. We get reminders at less than propitious times that the production is neither fish nor fowl. Also, though this is undeniably comic opera, one wonders if it is really intended to cross the line into farce; some of the staging is witty, some just plain silly. Having said that, though, I must admit that even some of the silly bits made me laugh, if a little guiltily.

Nerone, countertenor David Trudgen (Jeffrey Dunn photo)

In the end, though, the excellent performances are what stay most fixed in the mind. Musical high points for me included Agrippina’s first aria, I exult in the rage of the storm whose fearless brilliance evokes the character’s dauntlessness; Poppea’s bathtub aria admiring her pearls and flowers, with its playful chains of triplets and perky recorder obbligato; Nero’s stunning “storm” aria, Like stormclouds driven by the wind, when he decides to cut loose his desire for Poppea to ruthlessly pursue the throne; Claudius’s pair of come-hither arias in Poppea’s boudoir, turning from seductive to (unintentionally) amusing, as staged; and the genuine pathos of Otho’s tragic lament aria, sung most affectingly by Costanzo, after everyone has rejected him following Agrippina’s slander.

In essence, Agrippina is a fine entertainment, hardly needing outside enhancements to give enjoyment, but those that are added here, though at times excessive, are nearly all effective notwithstanding. One may classify bits of it as a guilty pleasure, but it is the pleasure that decisively wins out.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. Currently, he sings in the choir of Trinity Church and accompanies the Boston Choral Ensemble under Miguel Felipe.

Musica Nuova, the ensemble that takes “a new look at early music” presented its latest program on Saturday, February 5, at the Friends Meetinghouse in Cambridge. It surely would have attracted a much larger audience but for the inclement weather that made travel quite treacherous. This is unfortunate because Musica Nuova, under the artistic direction of Amanda Keil, is striking out in unorthodox but compelling directions to attract new listeners to older music too often thought staid and stuffy. This program was titled BlackBerry Jam, and, despite using Italian music more than four centuries old, its cleverly crafted storyline involves a pair of co-workers in a modern-day office whose neuroses about love and relationships cause much agony and ecstasy along the way. The gifted small ensemble are mezzo Amanda Keil, baritone Thann Scoggin, Scott Lemire on theorbo, Suzanne Cartreine at the harpsichord, and Joshua Schreiber Shalem playing the viola da gamba.

After the instrumentalists are seated and tuned, the singers, engrossed in their BlackBerries, enter their “office.” Suddenly, the two people look up, notice each other, and there is instant chemistry. Scoggin’s character is inspired to present a flower to Keil and launches into “I have seen on earth” — I am supplying titles in English — by Marco da Gagliano. Its Petrarch text has the standard unfavorable comparison of earth’s greatest beauties to the beloved.

Scoggin’s singing skillfully used the period style to accentuate the text: there were notable melismata on sole (the envious sun) and star (holding back floods), a large messa di voce on intento (“Heaven was so intent on this harmony”), and two final marvelous melismata on l’aere and vento (“The air and breeze full of sweetness”). In response, Keil sings a considerably abridged version of the same text, set by Sigismondo d’India. Omitting most of the hyperbole of the full text, this song makes a stark contrast to the first; whereas Scoggin’s song is accompanied by harpsichord and gamba, Keil’s uses theorbo only and conveys a much more inward mood — though no less intense. The slower tempo might have made it possible to ornament more frequently, but Keil also chose to do so mainly on key words of the text. Last, the Gagliano setting is robust; the d’India delicate and feminine. It was fascinating to hear how different two composers’ conception of the same text could be.

But love is never a simple matter. Keil made a comic gem of the next piece, Luigi Rossi’s “I am a girl who does not know how to love” (i.e., “I’m lousy at relationships”), pleading for kindness, since she can’t handle rejection. The choreography is most effective: she repeatedly gets very close to him, then suddenly jumps back, realizing how dangerously vulnerable she is (the refrain “I am a girl …” recurs obsessively throughout). He, of course, is thoroughly frustrated by this, but she hardly notices.

Three songs of Giulio Caccini followed, first “Burn, my heart,” sung movingly by Scoggin, essentially declaring that love is a sweet snare for which he would gladly give up his freedom. Her response, “Sweetest of sighs,” is similarly sweet at the outset, but after an emphatic “but” she begins to speak of love as martyrdom; Keil’s thespian skills are a great asset here. In the third song, “No more war,” Scoggin speaks of love as conquest on a battlefield and makes us realize that he is as neurotic as she. By the end both are in a state of discomfiture, and they “move to opposite corners.”

At this point, the first purely instrumental piece was performed, a single-movement sonata by Giovanni Paolo Cima. This is an example of how, in Italy at this time, even the instrumental music was influenced by vocal writing. In place of the singer, the regular cello-like gamba is replaced by a treble version of it, while the theorbo now reinforces the harpsichord bass. With over a dozen strings, it can reach some deliciously low pitches.

In the next song by Giovanni Ghizzolo, “Listen, Phyllis, how it thunders”, Scoggin reveled in the frequent word-painting, but its references to Jove are perhaps not providential for the lovers, given the god’s profligacy in bestowing his favors. Her reply, Ghizzolo’s “Here, happy lovers,” seems to convey her growing fear that his love is not the real thing (“Cupid without arrows and wings”).

This leads to the inevitable falling-out with flaring tempers, rejected flower, and papers thrown on the floor. The pair have crossed the thin line from adoration to detestation, and they get in each other’s face in Alessandro Steffani’s “Love be cursed!”, full of furious runs and competitive love-cursing, great fun for the audience, if not the characters.

Following intermission, harpsichordist Suzanne Cartreine played Girolamo Frescobaldi’s “Variations on Romanesca,” pointing up the variety of rhythmic figures that characterize each variation. Then Scoggin rendered Claudio Monteverdi’s ciaccona, “I want to depart this life,” declaring his suicidal intentions with the same extravagant type of pronouncements with which he had declared his love at the beginning. And similarly, we heard an extremely florid melisma on the key word frangono ([hopes] dashed to pieces), to cite one instance. When he aims a letter opener at his midriff, Keil’s eyes widen momentarily before she concludes that he’s not serious and even laughs at him.

Soon enough, though, he is laughing at her when she receives a pink slip and sings her own affecting lament of abandonment, Ghizzolo’s “My Tirsi, dear Tirsi.” During the song he is beginning to soften, though he tries to hide it. She continues in the same vein with Monteverdi’s “You were once all mine,” heaping the pathos higher until he is quite overcome with remorse.

At that point Scoggin’s character sings Caccini’s “Under the night sky, with the stars an inferno of love,” a text only marginally less extravagant than his opening praise of her beauty, but now appealing to the stars to make her love him. The nymph-and-shepherd dialogue that follows, Ghizzolo’s “Why do you weep, shepherd?”, though superficially sympathetic on her part, can also be read (if one is cynical enough) as her ascertaining the strength of her position. She finds his answers satisfactory, and they are officially reconciled, the piece ending aptly enough with the singers on a unison.

The lovely final song, “Oh, what pleasure” by Ghizzolo, recapitulates at least two of the poetic themes heard before: love as a sweet snare and the unequaled beauty of the beloved. The pair sing alternate stanzas and dance in a Renaissance style, seeming to symbolize love at arms’ length. They may be together, but the neuroses remain.

Amanda Keil and Musica Nuova imaginatively assemble programs of carefully chosen songs while formulating thought-provoking, often humorous storylines. They give excellent performances in which Baroque performance style is a means to an end rather than an end in itself. One hopes that soon they will be performing to full houses regardless of foul weather.

Geoffrey Wieting holds Bachelor’s degrees in organ and Latin from Oberlin College and a Master’s degree in collaborative piano from New England Conservatory. Currently, he sings in the choir of Trinity Church and accompanies the Boston Choral Ensemble under Miguel Felipe.